


Hover

by Han_shot_first



Series: Elder Pattern [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships (Past), Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Arya is 22, Asoiaf universe (but alternative), BDSM, Bondage, Cooking, Dominance, Elder Pattern, Explicit Consent, F/M, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Hunting, Knives, Lorathi Tales, Medieval food, Modern Assassins, Praise Kink, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Road Trips, Romance, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Spanking, Submission, Tattooist Sandor, The Faceless Men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-04-12 05:58:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19126003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Han_shot_first/pseuds/Han_shot_first
Summary: She had been ready to leave. All she had needed to do was put some clothes on, and leave him behind.“Would a lovely girl like a partner?”If she had denied him, he would have followed her.This, they knew.-----Alternative universe fic, with parallels to the show and the books, but with modern tech adapted from our world. Continuation from my previous fic ('Reclamation'), aka Arya wants to know where the hell her sister has gone without telling anyone, without answering her phone, or responding to text messages for days. A certain assassin attempts to be supportive.(Note: there is no underage sex in this fic, because my Jaqen would kill those Jaqens without compunction.)





	1. Hare Curry

A man watched the younger dark-haired woman as she took aim with her bow and fired into the undergrowth. A moment later, she smiled. It was a vicious little smile.

The hare was screaming. She’d hit it.

“You’re cooking.”

“A girl has caught the evening meal,” he inclined his head, as they walked towards her kill. “A man keeps his word.”

She picked up the fat hare, ignored its eerie cries, and quickly broke its neck. She pulled out her arrow and inspected the steel arrowhead and fletching. The arrowhead was fine; one of the fletches might need replacing. She sucked her teeth, slightly annoyed, but it was a fair price for dinner, she supposed. She replaced it into her quiver.

She felt no pity for her prey. It was dead, and she was alive. Its death would keep her alive a little while longer. She was just glad she didn’t have to do the cooking.

“Tell me you brought some spices,” she said as she handed Jaqen the dead hare. “Never thought I’d say this, but Northern cooking is shite when compared to Braavosi spice.”

“A man agrees,” he said noncommittally as they walked back towards their little camp. Jaqen quickly brought the fire back up and began to skin the hare while Arya sat down to work on the damaged fletch.

They worked in silence, as they had for the past few evenings.

At first, Arya had told herself that she didn’t care where Sansa had gone. She told herself that she trusted her older sister, and that she believed her when Sansa had said that she was through with Ramsay Bolton, the sack of shit that had put her in the hospital more than once.

Then she’d sent Sansa text messages for the past week, and received nothing in reply. It was like she had disappeared again.

Three nights ago, she had nudged Jaqen awake as she stood to pack her lightest rucksack. His light brown eyes had gleamed like gold as he had watched her by the light of the single candle she had lit to work by. Still naked and in a foul mood, she had rolled a few garments tightly and shoved them into the bag. He had noted with approval her quick, utilitarian movements as she had packed nothing that did not have multiple uses, and nothing that was not strictly necessary. Items for camping, he had observed, and for stalking or covert observations. Two sets of plain, urban clothes. No smallclothes. His lovely girl eschewed them whenever possible.

She had turned away to reach into her closet and pull out weapons. A bandolier of knives, a bow and quiver full of arrows, and two gun cases. He had become very interested, sitting up as she took out the first gun case and placed it on the bed, near his feet. It contained her Valyrian Catspaw PSS with a black dragonbone grip. He had watched as she had taken it out, checked the chamber, and was satisfied. She had returned it to the case, then had reached in to withdraw and inspect a magazine. Like his own PSS, he had known that it would only accept 7.62x43mm noiseless ammunition. An assassin’s weapon, almost wholly unknown in Westeros. Once she had looked it over and been satisfied, she had put it back into the gun case, clicked it shut, placed it onto the floor, and finally, looked up at him.

She had held his golden gaze, then had pulled the other gun case from the floor and placed it on the bed, over a covered foot. He had given her a smirk then, but had otherwise not moved. She had opened the second gun case and taken out a much more standard, but deeply beloved, stainless steel Mikken II .22 LR pistol. She had gone through the ritual again, had repeated her motions to check over Needle, before she had carefully replaced it into its case, clicked it shut, and placed it on the floor next to the Catspaw.

She had been ready to leave. All she had needed to do was put some clothes on, and leave him behind.

He had been rock hard, and hadn't cared if she had seen it. Seeing each other check over their weapons always did this to them. It was probably a sign of psychopathic behavior, but they had gone beyond caring long ago. The bedlinen had tented over his erection as he had sat back against the headboard, cocking his head to the side. He had studied her then, his golden eyes slightly narrowing in the light of the single candle.

“Is a girl going somewhere?” he had whispered.

“Obviously.”

He had continued to smirk, challenging her, and had let his eyes roam her face, the sharp edges of her collarbones, and the hard peaks of her nipples. Whether they were aroused from the cold or for him, he hadn't cared. It was always a welcome sight to the Lorathi. He had taken in the scars on her chest, her belly, the tops of her thighs. As always, it had pleased him. He had tossed his head back slightly, his red and white hair falling over his broad shoulders, and she had seen the candlelight play across his neck, his shoulders, and the gold of his skin. He had been showing off his scars.

“Would a lovely girl like a partner?”

If she had denied him, he would have followed her.

This, they knew.

He had followed her when she had fled Braavos. Stolen away on the same flight, switching faces like magic and using every trick in his book to follow her trail unseen back to Westeros. Shadowing her as she grew older and harder. A dark presence. An obsession. Sometimes, he was a little whisper in just the right shadow to ensure much needed luck as she crossed off another name on her death list. Sometimes, he was just another face in the crowd as she completed her bloody work. But he was always there: to watch, to fight, and to ensure that if she needed him, No One would be there.

He was hers, as she was his.

Except when she ran, and he was obliged to follow.

He had nurtured her in the House of Black and White, and been her master as she toiled as an acolyte to learn its secret ways, always hellbent on avenging the deaths of her family. He had tried to take the wolf out of her, to exchange it for the assassin in her, but he had failed. All of his harsh lessons had culminated in a string of deaths of everything except her name.

He had never expected to feel the stirrings of devotion towards her until the day she had aimed Needle at him, declared his House to be full of shit, and that she was going home to Winterfell.

“If you come after me, Jaqen H'ghar, I will kill you,” she had warned him with all the hatred that a sixteen year old girl could manage, which was quite a bit, in the case of Arya Stark.

Her grey eyes had flashed like the Narrow Sea, and for the first time in his long life as a priest of the Many-Faced God, a man had felt something click inside. He had felt himself become someone entirely whole, entirely new. It had been happening so gradually, so slowly, that in that moment, when he finally realized his predicament, he had simply wanted to laugh.

How amusing it was to be so proud and yet so infuriated with a lovely girl, who in that moment had wanted nothing more than to put a bullet in his heart if she should ever see him again. Remembering the look of intense hatred her face, he had known that he would forever be branded Jaqen H'ghar, be forever lost to her, to an identity she had seared into him, and never again be truly Faceless.

She had turned and calmly left him, having stolen a precious Valyrian Catspaw PSS and a bag full of faces, and Jaqen had of course been obliged to retrieve them and return with her face as compensation to the House of Black and White. He could have disarmed her, could have prevented her from ever leaving the temple, but he had never been her jailor, and the House had never been a prison.

Choices were everything to the Many-Faced God.

Instead, he had sought out the one she had called her Kindly Man, and had beseeched him for an acceptable compromise.

Death travelled with her, he had argued, and he was a priest of Death. Should he not be permitted to follow her and see what the Many-Faced God had planned for Arya Stark of Winterfell?

_Valar morghulis._

It was all the same to the Many-Faced God.

_Valar dohaeris._

And so Jaqen had learned peace and fury in equal measures as he had paced her bloody steps, though she had never known it, until at last he had found her bloody at the foot of her brother’s wheelchair, the Catspaw in her right hand and her left curled around her belly.

She had taken down the man who had styled himself the Night King, killed him with a precise shot through his blackened heart, the culmination of four long, bloody years spent dismantling his kingdom to end his reign of terror in the North. In what should have been her moment of triumph, her face had become a grieving visage of horror and Jaqen's worst nightmares. Her body armour had become bloody and torn, and she had clutched at a hole in her abdomen, unable to contain the pool of blood dripping onto her feet that was steadily becoming wider, staining the snow dark red around Bran's wheelchair.

She had been collapsing at Bran’s side, under the heart tree.

Jaqen had roared her name and ran. All around him, King’s men had been in retreat or been falling to the Stark’s private army. The siege had been brutal, and those who had fought under her family's banner had barely survived. Bran had watched without words as Jaqen had only just managed to catch Arya as she had fallen forward from the blood loss, her eyes widening with shock and recognition as he had lost control of his face.

Bran’s voice had rang out impassively throughout the godswood.

“Valar morghulis.”

“Valar dohaeris,” he had bit out automatically, hardly thinking as he had frantically stripped off her armour, looking to find the source of her bleeding, his heart in his mouth and panic on his face.

“Yes,” Bran had responded in that strange monotone, seemingly not caring about the carnage around him or the sister dying in the man's arms. “You have. And you will.”

‘Rule your face,’ Jaqen had thought desperately as he had glanced up at the young man. Her bloody hand had come up then, reaching Jaqen's cheek, and he had looked back down, briefly letting his eyes close against the feel of her touching him at last, until he had felt her attempting to claw his eyes out. His eyes had flown back open and he had smiled at her savagery, then had clasped her feebly scratching hand to quickly kiss the knuckles, one by one.

“Lovely girl,” he had whispered.

“Are you here,” she had panted with pain, “to kill me...Jaqen H'ghar?”

He had dropped her hand to unbuckle and unzip her armour, stripping her of it, then had torn open the sterile pads from the medic kit at his belt. He had pressed hard onto the bullet wound and she had cried out, but he had not let up on the pressure. Her life had depended on it, and he had never been one to spare her pain when her life had been on the line.

“Never,” he had vowed, as he had leaned over to kiss her bloody lips, heedless of her brother, the dead around them, and every gods damned thing in the world except her, Arya Stark, his lovely girl, the dark heart of Winterfell.

She had moaned, and then licked across his mouth, surprising and delighting him in equal measure. She had called his name, and it had sounded like a promise and a prayer to the Lorathi. She had grabbed his body armor and pulled him closer to her, heedless of the pain it sent through her belly, and he had pressed his lips against hers.

"You will not die, Arya Stark," he had declared to Him of Many Faces, and prayed that it was not blasphemous.

"Not...today...," she had panted in fervent agreement. She hadn't given a shit about blasphemy. Still didn't.

Then he had pulled back and had continued his work as he had heard the survivors around them begin to take stock of the wounded, heard their calls for aid, but nothing had existed to him anymore but his lovely girl, her battered body, and the blood he was determined to keep inside of her.

The morning they had left Winterfell, two years since the battle that nearly took her life but brought him back to her, three days before she had shot the hare, she had stood naked before him, whole and hale.

He had known she was thinking of leaving without him, but she knew that he had not known why. She had loved him for not asking why, though he had glared at her with suppressed anger, looking into her clear grey eyes, but not asking the question. So she had climbed back onto the bed, taken the Lorathi's face in her hands, and bitten into his mouth without further preamble, punishing and rewarding him for not asking. Her tongue had swept arrogantly against his, heedless of any morning breath, and he had groaned, tearing the bedlinens away in a furious need to feel her body stretched out against him.

She knew that the Kindly Man received reports. She knew that when Jaqen received a name, she could sometimes accompany him, sometimes not. She was free to come and go as she pleased. He was not.

It suited them fine.

Most of the time.

She still thought his House was full of shit.

But he could neither give up his priesthood than she could give up being Arya Stark, and so she shared him with Him of Many Faces, and he shared her with the world, and they tussled over the compromise and the pain. Nothing was perfect, but it was theirs, and they would not give it up.

The slightly stale smell of sweat, of male and female, of life and death, had permeated the room.

They had smelled worse things, and done much fouler deeds.

He had tried to push her over, but she had quickly straddled his stomach, avoiding his lengthening cock, and she had kissed him again and again. She could never get enough of his mouth, his tongue, or the feel of his plush lips.

Unbidden, she had thought of Sansa’s unexpected absence and unresponsiveness to her text messages, and a deep anger in her belly had simmered; she had moved down and bit savagely into Jaqen’s throat, punishing him for her thoughts, and he had yelped.

A hand had closed over her throat then, briefly cutting off her air, and he had flipped them over. Killer though she was, grappling had never been her strong suit. She was strong and clever, but he had over twenty kilograms of weight on her, and all of it muscle. He had pressed his hard length against her centre, and had snarled into her face.

His throat must have been throbbing with pain, for he had tightened his grip ever so slightly. The smell of copper had been in the air; she had broken skin. It had dripped onto their bedlinen, and he had slowly wagged a finger in her face.

“Evil girl.”

She had wriggled in his grasp, and they had begun the struggle for dominance. Every movement had been a play for more pleasure or pain, and he had let go of her throat as he had shoved her arms over her head. He had pressed his forehead against hers, a move that never failed to drive her crazy, and had ground his cock against her centre. She had hissed, then had licked upwards into his panting mouth.

She had decided to play dirty, and had wrapped her legs around his hips. She had let out the smallest of moans. A concession. A plea.

“A girl wants to be fucked, yes?” he had breathed into her mouth, risking her ire and her teeth. She had been in such a bad mood.

“Then why does a lovely girl tear a man’s throat, hmm?”

He had held both of her wrists above her head, and reached down towards their centres. He had taken himself in hand, then had dragged the fat head of his heavy cock up and down her hot slit. He had balanced against her wrists, heedless of the pressure, and had intently watched her face. Her mouth had dropped, and finally, finally, she had begun to relax a little in his grip.

He had moved slowly, so achingly slowly, and had murmured, “Why is a lovely girl so angry, hm?” He had licked her open mouth as he had gently tapped her clit with his cock. “Answer a man, lovely girl.”

“I’m…oh…that’s good…mmm…my sister…Sansa…..oh, just fuck me already!” She had become angry and aggressive again, had growled and slipped her hands from under his grasp, and had scrabbled for his hips.

Such a bad mood.

He had pressed his hips hard against her, snatched her hands, and pressed his head against her forehead again.

“A man will restrain a lovely girl,” he had murmured. A warning.

Her grey eyes had become vicious little slits. He always saw the changes in her, and this one had been no exception. Now it had become a fight: for freedom, for dominance, for submission, and against the siren call for escape. The wolf in her had become incensed beyond all reason.

“You wouldn’t fucking dare.”

Challenging, growling, prowling against the boundaries.

“What colour are you, Arya Stark?”

Her Master now, his voice uncompromising, Valyrian steel and a velvet purr.

“White,” she had snarled, without hesitation.

Quick as a snake, he had cuffed a wrist to a post of the headrest. The scars on both posts had attested to the many times that this had happened. She had cursed him and had tried to punch him with her other arm, but had he ignored that, for he had already snatched her other wrist and secured her. She had tried to kick him when he had reached her feet, but he had placed each ankle in a soft restraint and had secured them to the posts at the foot of the bed so quickly that her breath had been taken away. In seconds, she had been put completely at the mercy of her Master, and he had stood by the bed, surveying his lovely girl with eyes that gleamed like bronze in the candlelight.

“Does a lovely girl like her eyes?”

The Lorathi had been toying with her as he had turned away, as though her captivity meant nothing at all.

Rage had filled her blood, and she had cursed him in High Valyrian.

“Pity.”

He had gone to retrieve the silk blindfold. Leaning over, he had fitted it lovingly over her eyes, ignoring more of her curses and the attempts to bite at his wrists. Then he had whispered with real menace into her ear, “Does a girl like her mouth?”

She had hesitated then, and then wisely chosen not to speak again. No more curses, no more attempts to snap at him with her teeth. She hated to be gagged. She had reckoned he must have smirked again, the bastard, for he had kissed her cheek most chastely.

Then she had listened with all her senses as he had walked to his armoire and brought out his favourite instruments of pleasure and torture.

“What colour does a lovely girl say, when the pain becomes too much?” he had whispered into the air.

“Grey,” she whispered back.

“And what colour does a lovely girl say, when she wants a man to stop?”

“Black,” she had said, with a touch of real fear.

Vicious as a dragon, he had cracked a whip in the air next to her, nowhere near her body, but the psychological fear made her body jump on the bed.

_Sadist._

Over the next hour, he had ruthlessly dominated her. First, he had hit her with the palms of his hands, warming her skin to his touch, bringing the blood to the surface, preparing it to receive more. Then he had beaten her with the tawse, and flogged her lovingly with the crop. She had cried out, but he had noted with approval that she had stopped cursing him.

He had switched to the cane, giving her soft then harder stripes across her belly that had stung like holy fire.

He had relished her cries, his erection proudly jutting in the candlelight, but had not once stopped to touch himself or relieve the ache in his heavy cock. He had been entranced by her pain and suffering, her struggles to contain her cries, a battle that she lost by inches. He had lavishly heaped praise upon her with every pause, crooning at her lovingly, the rewards of his clever words breaking her down just as surely as his beating, as she had slowly begun to open up, little by little, fighting him every step of the way.

Not once had she used her safe words. He had taken her to the edge again and again, but she kept the words from her lips.

_Sansa, where are you? Sansa, are you safe? Sansa, I can't lose another member of our pack._

She would never know, but he had worried for her then.

‘Use your safe words, lovely girl,’ he had urged her in depths of his mind as he had played with her body. ‘Scream them, my love,’ as he had flicked the cane carefully over her clit, hearing her muffle a scream behind the lips that she bit to blood. ‘Cry black,’ he had prayed, as he had crossed the stripes of the cane at the end, but she never did.

At last, when her skin had been proudly striped, her thighs and belly had become red and welted, her arms had earned bruises that would purple against her snowy skin, and the tips of her breasts had become proudly sore and aching, she had begun to weep.

'Finally,' he thought, as he wiped the sweat from his brow, his heady work having been well accomplished, and he had let himself kiss her dry lips fully and deeply. At last, he had reached down to the secret crevice of her, and gently rubbed his fingers around her lips, her bud, her dripping hole. She had become so, so wet, and she had cried out in ecstatic joy around his tongue.

“My love,” he had said reverently, from the depths of his soul. She had wept harder, just from receiving his adoration. He had gently massaged just under her clit with the side of his thumb, having found it proud and quivering for his touch. She had shivered.

“Please, Jaqen,” she had whispered. At last, at last, her anger was dissipated. She floated on a cloud of euphoria and love.

“Who are you?” he had responded, on an equally high plane as he had leaned over to take a sore nipple into his mouth, sucking it deep and being rewarded by a moan of pleasure.

“I am yours,” she had keened, laying completely open to him. At last, at last, his thumb had begun rubbing ever maddening circles under her proud clit, sometimes rolling over the hood, sometimes stopping entirely, letting her enjoy the sparks of her body.

He had come off her breast with a slight sucking sound, and then he had released her blindfold. He had pulled his teasing hand away from her cunt, and used the edge of the sheets to wipe her face and lips, mindful of her needs as ever. He had paused to let her have a drink of water. She could smell herself on him as he lifted her face to his. He had supped kisses from her lips, rewarding her thoroughly with his mouth, his tongue, and his love.

“And I am yours,” he had affirmed once again, as though it was the first time. He had stroked her sides, her thighs, her belly, her flanks, and the feel of his fingertips across the bruises and welts was the sweetest fire. She had whimpered, and then had lifted her hips as much as she could against the restraints, trying to fit herself onto his cock. He had chuckled then, holding himself away, though she had tempted him so.

“Tell a man what caused a girl to become so angry, and perhaps a girl will come,” he had offered. He had turned her face away, merciful. He had been giving her privacy, but had distracted by licking the side of her neck, dragging his teeth gently down to the collarbones he so loved.

“My sister is missing,” she had sighed, speaking the words away from him. She had been so, so grateful that he had let her speak her fears into the darkness.

He had paused then.

The Lorathi had recalled that the last time Sansa Stark had been missing for any length of time, she had returned to her abusive partner, the consulting physician, Ramsay Bolton. It had been over eighteen months ago, but Jaqen had remembered all too clearly the hell it had caused his lovely girl. Against his advice, they had taken Sansa to the hospital just once, but it had not changed anything. His lovely girl had experienced the agony of being helpless. She had felt the sheer torment that came when one could not save someone who did not want to be saved.

Sansa had broken Ramsay’s hold eventually, but Jaqen had always privately worried if it had come at too high a price. He had kept his worries for his lovely girl’s sister to himself, but had never expected Sansa to just disappear.

“How do you know Sansa Stark is missing, lovely girl?”

He had resumed his tender ministrations down Arya's chest and had come to her breasts. He had given each of the sore nipples the attention they so richly deserved, first thumbing them, then carefully pulling on them. She had moaned softly, loving the mixture of the pain and pleasure, but she had not turned back to look at him.

She had been enjoying his hard length moving so pleasingly against her clit, exactly the way they both so loved. She had been reflecting that the Lorathi knew her body so well, and she had been becoming so lost in the pleasurable pain as she floated on the endorphins he had released in her system.

Then she had felt a sharp pinch. A warning.

“She left over a week ago,” she had responded instantly. “I sent text messages a few days ago, and again last night. No reply.”

He had immediately rewarded her with an inch of his cock. Grateful, she had groaned low and deep in her throat, and had instinctively tried, without success, to grasp the enormous head of his cock more completely into the entrance of her slick cunt. He had chuckled darkly, and murmured little praises at her. She was doing so, so well, but he wanted more, and she had finally reached into her soul, and given it to him.

“I’m so scared, Jaqen.”

The admission had cost her everything, and shattered her reserves. Tears burst from her eyes, but she had long ago resolved in the night that she would not look at him. If she did not look, then it was not real. None of it was real.

He moved her face towards him. She tried to look away, but he held her face with strong, sure hands, balancing his cock on her entrance and his weight on his knees. He made her look in his eyes. She had named her fear, shared it with him, and now she had to be reminded that she never needed to walk that dark path alone.

He could never express into words the depths of her beauty when she looked so afraid and so vulnerable, but to the Lorathi, she had never looked more magnificent than when she bared her soul to him like this.

“Then we are going to find her, yes?” He trembled, so in love with her, and she had fluttered around him.

So in love with him, despite everything.

Maybe because of everything.

She had looked deep into the gold in his eyes as he held the back of her head and tilted her face to his, and she had nodded.

He had nodded back to seal the agreement, and then had kissed her. A promise. A vow.

Then he had thrust into her hard, and had taken her cry as he hit the back of her, against her cervix. She had cried out in ecstasy and writhed on his cock, her cunt overly sensitive after having been teased and made to wait for so long, but he had not let go of her mouth as he abruptly pulled out and shoved roughly back in, as they relished the feel of each other. He thrust in again, dragging out depravedly, the sounds and smells swirling around them.

It was so much to bear, he was huge, it was too much to take. She had wanted to pull her head back in, craving the shadows again, the intimacy frightening her. She had moaned as he hit her cervix, saying, “It's too much!”

“It’s never enough, Arya Stark,” he had purred into her ear, then he had bitten into her neck, his calloused hands gripping her ass, and he had fucked her, and fucked her, and fucked her.

She had moaned in ecstasy as he pushed himself into her, stretching her, the slippery head of his cock rubbing against her walls. Pain across her skin mingled with the pleasure in her cunt until the two were entirely indistinguishable; it exactly what she needed, the edge that she craved, and she had thrown her head back and panted as he had fucked her harder, his fingers digging into her hips, his knees and feet making furrows into the bed.

They lost track of time. Nothing had existed but the feel of them together. Nothing could harm them, as long as together they became an altogether new creature, something bound by pain, suffering, longing, and devotion. Their bodies had writhed as shades cast by the candlelight, coming apart and back together again and again. At random moments she had watched and wondered if she had been transported to another world and was seeing the death and rebirth of some strange creature, something dark and sinister; it had frightened her.

As if sensing her wandering mind, he would pinch or slap at her skin, snarling at her in warning, pulling her back, anchoring her to him, to the present moment. They were each other's sword and shield: the only cloak of his that she would ever bear would be woven from the shadows that sheltered them both.

’Stay here with me, Arya Stark,’ the Lorathi had thought savagely. ‘For you are mine, and I am yours.’

He had pushed her very hard that morning, but instinctively, as from the very beginning, he had understood and respected her limits. He had seen that she had needed to be cracked open. She had needed to be forced to admit her fears, to be made to face them, and then to be nudged, just so, to conquer them like the warrior she was.

At some point, he had released the restraints on her wrists. He had wanted her strong arms, had needed to feel them surround him. She had responded, and he had relished her cries as he had felt her encircling his back as she had pulled him forward and over her, as she had encouraged him to ride her harder, to move faster, to fuck her meaner.

Jaqen, Jaqen, Jaqen, she had cried out, as she had finally hit a peak: the most beautiful music in the world to a man.

‘I’m here,’ he had thought mindlessly, ‘I’m always here. With you.’ And he had held her to her climax, feeling her cage his body like a vice.

As she had relaxed her hold, panting in the air around them, he had abruptly pulled out and then slipped down the bed, moving in obsession, his only desperate thought to prolong her climax. He had centred himself between her legs to lick hard and suckle at her little bud, pausing to slip two, then three fingers back inside of her.

She had given him so much. He had to give her more.

“Again,” he commanded.

He placed his mouth, moving it around her clit in circles and patterns, and his fingers curved upwards inside of her, _just so_. She had keened and grabbed at his head, clutching at red and white hair to hold him against her core as tears had leaked down her face. His arm was a blur as he fucked her. She had bucked and struggled to hold on. She had scooted down the bed, trying to put her knees over his broad shoulders. He had been loath to stop, even for a second, but he did it to release her ankles, and then she bucked again, going upwards, shoving her legs over him, working to get his teeth and his lips and the angle just right. He had come up with her, onto his knees as he had lifted her into the air, not letting her go as she had undulated, shrieking, and she had come harder that time, squeezing around his fingers until wetness had covered his chin.

“Good girl,” he had muttered viciously against her cunt, smacking his lips against it, praising it. “My good, lovely girl.”

By the old gods and the new, she had cursed him in a haze, she still fucking craved his praise.

As she had come down from her high, she had begun to shiver uncontrollably, and he had scooped her back up the bed to hold her close against him. His erection had become a purple, throbbing ache between them, sticky with their combined fluids and leaking. He had ignored it. It had just become supremely unimportant.

Holding her, petting her slightly curling dark hair, pulling the rucked up bedlinens around them, had become his everything. Feeling her shaking against the crook of his shoulder had become his world.

He loved her so fucking much. He could be Jaqen H’ghar for the rest of his life and die in her bed with joy in his heart, if this was what it took to be hers.

She had been crying slightly still, but it had been a cleansing sort of weeping, interspersed with a few wondering chuckles. He had kissed her forehead gently as he had stroked her shoulders and her back, his fingers combing through her sweaty hair. Effortlessly, selflessly, he had given her comfort and support.

This was dying and being reborn, they had thought, in different ways, but it had all been the same to Him of Many Faces.

She had reached down, and had grabbed his cock. He had stopped her, and held her wrist.

“A man is satisfied.”

“You lie,” she had said, and glared up at him. She had gently but firmly squeezed him, had looked down, and had said, “Obviously.”

“It is not necessary,” he had amended.

She had sighed, rolled her eyes, and had said, “Just because you’re an expert in celibacy doesn’t mean you need to be, my love.”

“A man was not celibate just now,” he had chided.

She had snorted, an inelegant sound he loved. “You know what I mean.”

“Just so. Still, this was for a lovely girl.”

“A lovely girl wants to make a man come,” she had responded promptly.

He had sighed, looked down at her in annoyance, and had said, “You make it very difficult to look after you.”

She had grinned, heedless of the tears drying on her cheeks, and had said, “Gooey aftercare needs goo.”

And with that, she had put her mouth to work.

’He’s always trying to look after me,’ she thought, as she watched him begin to cook their dinner in a camp oven suspended over the fire. She had pulled her thoughts away from the morning they left with difficulty. The Lorathi looked damned fine when making her dinner, she reflected with a satisfied smirk.

It had taken two days to get this far from Winterfell, but they were within sight of Horn Hill now, just south of Highgarden. He had jointed and deboned the hare. She didn’t know what he had done with the fur and entrails, but suspected he had buried them in the woods when he had gone to wash his hands in the stream nearby and fill their water skins.

She watched as he heated some oil in the oven first, then added a whole stick of cinnamon, some cardamom pods, and a bay leaf. The spices quickly became aromatic, and he threw in chopped onions, garlic, ginger, and salt. He took out a small vial containing the precious Braavosi spices: ground cumin, coriander, turmeric, paprika, and chilli powder. He poured out a small amount into his hand, and then tossed it in. He waited a few minutes as the spices mingled, then opened a bag containing some of Winterfell’s conservatory-grown tomatoes, dumped them in whole, then added the meat. He took a knife and stirred everything roughly, added water to the strange looking mixture, and placed the lid over the oven, looking satisfied.

She smiled at him, and sat back to enjoy the smells of the food cooking. He sat beside her, content.

“We’ll be in Oldtown tomorrow,” she said. “The Kindly Man says the last time her cell phone was used, it was in Oldtown?”

“Big place,” he said, nodding.

She sighed. She didn't like owing the House any favours, but this was Sansa, and so Arya would deal with that debt later.

“Why would she go there?” she asked him. “What’s in Oldtown for Sansa?”

He shrugged, then said, “Probably not Ramsay.” The bastard worked as a private consulting physician at Hornwood, far away in the North.

She pulled the damaged fletch from her arrow angrily. Jaqen pressed further.

“If a girl’s sister is not with Ramsay, should a lovely girl not just leave her be?”

Arya angrily tossed her arrow down and stood up, wanting the height to glare down over her former master.

“First of all, we don't know that she's not with Ramsay! She’s shown a lot of poor sense over the years! I have to make sure she’s okay!”

She stomped over to the campfire, but seeing nothing to fix, she went over to the car, intent on finding something to maim or kill. Anything but speak with Jaqen just now.

A hand on her shoulder surprised her.

“I should put a bell on you,” she said dully.

He just held her close, letting her rest against his chest.

“I just… I can’t lose her, Jaqen. Not now. Not after everything,” she said. She looked up into his light brown eyes. After all these years, she still sought his comfort, his reassurances, his protection. She hated herself for the weakness, and hated him a little for being so willing to provide all of it and more to her.

She didn’t want to be weak. She didn’t want to need to love him, or her sister, or anyone. She wanted to be No One, but she couldn’t. No One didn’t have a sister. No One didn’t have Jaqen.

He pulled her closer, and kissed the top of her head.

“A man knows. We will find her, lovely girl,” he said.

“And we will kick her ass,” she muttered into his chest.

He shrugged gently, not committing to that, and pulled her back towards their fire, the waiting dinner, and the warmth of their shared blankets and tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Valyrian Catspaw PSS is adapted based on information gleaned about the Russian PSS and PSS-2 silenced pistols. These pistols have no silencers, and instead use specially engineered noiseless ammunition. 
> 
> The Mikken II .22 LR pistol, aka Needle, is based on the Ruger Mark II Target .22 LR caliber pistol.
> 
> Jaqen's recipe is copyright Martin Tomlinson. You can get full instructions and pictures for the bushcraft here: http://frontierbushcraft.com/2019/03/12/hare-curry-campfire/.
> 
> If you hunt rabbits or hares in the wild and manage to shoot one with a bow and arrow (extremely difficult but not impossible to do), they will scream. The sound is not unlike a baby crying. I chose not to add that description. (You're welcome.) I have absolutely no problem with hunting, so long as hunters use what they kill, and do not waste the animal. (Sport killing I find to be hideous, and fox hunting just disgusting.) I think quite highly of hunters who eat what they kill than those of us who only shop for cuts in a sterile supermarket, and never consider the animals that have suffered for their dinners. My extended family has hunted deer for generations, and taken the kills for food to last the winter months. Pelts were used or sold. Only a hundred and fifty years ago, we were all closer to our food sources than we are now. Of course, your mileage may vary. 
> 
> Jaqen and Arya practice RACK: risk-accepted consensual kink, as you might expect for a pair of assassins.


	2. Lamprey Pie

They arrived in Oldtown the next evening as the sun kissed the western horizon. They were lucky to find parking near the docks and took a room at The Blushing Lady, a bustling tavern with a full bar boasting craft ales from the farms straddling the Honeywine. 

“I’ll order some dinner,” Arya offered, “if you want to take a shower first.” 

She didn’t really care that much about daily ablutions. Her snowy white skin would suffer from a chronic and itchy dryness if she subjected it to rigorous showering without tedious slatherings of thick, oily lotions, which she detested as they left her skin feeling unclean and smelling artificial. Oh she bathed and showered when necessary, but she was no slave to the hundreds of smelly toiletries her sister adored.

On the other hand, she had grown accustomed to thinking of Jaqen as being half aquatic, for he showered every morning, and would often indulge in a scalding hot bath in the evenings before coming to bed. She knew that had the little stream near the previous night’s campfire not been near freezing cold, he would have dunked himself in without hesitation. Instead, he had sighed, grabbed his washcloth, soap, toothbrush and toothpaste, and contented himself by the side of the stream with what Arya referred to as a whore’s bath: cleaning only one’s armpits, crotch, asshole, and teeth. 

Perking up at the word 'shower', he inclined his head with gratitude, and took their bags up the creaking stairwell to their room.

While he was gone, she went to the bar and ordered a large lamprey pie with bread and cheese for Jaqen, and a huge plate of roasted chicken with creamed turnips, onions, and brown gravy for herself. She looked with interest over the craft ales and selected two bottled pints of ruby ales, and ordered a jug of fresh water and cups to be sent over to their table along with their meal. 

As she carried her ale back to a table that provided the best view of the tavern, while also staying away from the front windows, and keeping in good sight of the entrance, the back exit, the toilets, and the stairwell leading to the guestrooms, she opened her senses to glean what she could of the conversations that were pouring in around her. 

Fishermen greeted each other after a long day in the Whispering Sound. 

People of the night plied their age-old trade, giggling and flirting. A speciality of The Blushing Lady, and one of the reasons she had chosen the place. Lips were always looser around beautiful men and women and freely flowing alcohol.

Case in point: a few merchant traders from the Summer Isles laughed with the whores, their accented replies in Common sounding like silk in the air.

She heard a few familiar smatterings in Braavosi, Lorathi, and Myrish, and smiled to herself, wondering if Him of Many Faces had guided her Lorathi to this place after all. Their stories were interesting, and she tucked them away for future considerations.

She knew Sansa would never come to a place like this. 

‘This place is entirely too coarse for little miss highbred Lady Stark,' she thought with lingering bitterness towards her sister.

She took a long swig from her bottle of red ale, found it to be slightly sweet and peppery, and was satisfied.

”Tell a man three new things,” murmured a freshly washed Jaqen, who looked entirely too pleased with himself as he slipped into the chair across from her. 

'Sometimes,' Arya reflected, 'the fastest way to a Lorathi’s heart is through a shower.' 

She pushed his bottle of ale towards him as their dinners and the water arrived. He inclined his head again, and she enjoyed the darkened red shade as it glimmered wetly in the dimmed light of the tavern. They began to eat, and she considered the tavern’s offerings again. Unsurprisingly, there had been no whispers or chatter in High Valyrian. She sighed, tried to recall her lessons, and began. 

“Three of dragonfire metal knives, with a gold heart, moons four, Jhala of spice men, if find money Hightower fart man.”

Jaqen’s eyes twinkled merrily, then he threw his head back and laughed so hard that tears began to leak from his golden eyes. 

Arya scowled at him, and considered flicking some of her turnip onto his face. 

“Shut up,” she snarled. “It’s been a really long time since I used anything but the curses.”

“A man hears,” he chuckled, as he flicked the tears from under his eyes, and took a drink. “A girl should practice with a man.”

“Fuck off,” she said perfectly in High Valyrian.

“A girl should practice that with a man too,” he said amiably, as he tucked into his lamprey pie. He ate with gusto, and she looked at him and his dinner with disgust. She hated lamprey.

She growled and attacked her chicken instead, feeling hotly embarrassed. She wasn’t sure now exactly what she had said to Jaqen, but it was so rare to see the Lorathi laugh, especially like that, she could only assume she had hideously mangled her first new thing beyond all comprehension. She tried again.

“For the three of the metal of Old Valyria, knives, there comes the gold heart of wood. For the…. the holding of the metal. It comes in the fourth of…. In four of moons. Men of Jhala agree with the Breakwind of Hightower, if he finds… coin?”

Jaqen considered, and then replied in flawless High Valyrian, “Ser Baelor of Hightower has been offered goldenheart from smugglers of Jhala for the hilts of three Valyrian steel knives, if he can meet their price. The shipment will arrive in four months."

She parsed his words, then nodded around a mouthful of chicken. 

In Common, he said, “Dead men swing soon from Hightower. The heir is an environmentalist.”

She shrugged. Such matters didn’t really interest her, though she was curious if the part about the three Valyrian steel knives was true. 

He looked at his lovely girl, and marvelled at her once again. It could not be simply chance. No, Him of Many Faces had brought them to this tavern, on this evening, and in a matter of moments, amidst the surrounding cacophony, she had plucked dead men from the air with the ease of a bard laying fingers upon strings.

It was a sign, he knew, that he was on the right path. He was to continue to follow her, to shield her, and shelter her under his cloak of dark shadows. She was truly blessed and beloved by the Many-Faced God, whether she wished it or not.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she objected.

“Like what, lovely girl,” he purred with a smile.

“Like a moonstruck fool.” 

She defied him, and he acquiesced without rancour, simply looking aside for a moment, then back at her, undeterred, and unafraid of her wrath. 

He winked. 

She snarled, and struck at her food again, washing it down with her ale. She both hated and loved it when he looked at her like that.

“Two are owed,” he reminded her, putting steel back into his voice. He continued with his pie, relishing the rich blood and wine sauce, with its white pepper, saffron, and nutmeg, loving the glazed onions, and let the butter in the crust melt in his mouth. It really was a very good pie. He dipped a piece of the coarse bread into the dish, coating it thoroughly before popping it into his mouth.

“That’s disgusting,” she declared, before she swiped a piece of his bread, and did the same with the gravy on her plate.

“Why is it acceptable for a sweet girl, and not a hungry man?” he asked calculatingly. She had ordered the pie.

“Lampreys are horrible,” she said with conviction. “They’re only good as bait.”

“A man knows a story that will change a girl’s mind,” he began, “but first, a girl owes two.” 

“You promise me a story?”

“Just so.”

“A Lorathi one? One you haven’t told me before?”

“A man has said.”

She looked at him for a moment, then gave him a real smile. 

She really was just like a child sometimes, he mused to himself, but he delighted in those moments, as they were as rare as winter roses. Tremendous pain and suffering had come early to Arya Stark’s life and had forced her to turn her wild ways into feral savagery, but the promise of a new story from her beloved’s cold and faraway home could bring the ghost of innocence back from where it had been stolen from her. 

He loved her so much, and in those rare moments when he could see the guileless child she had once been, his heart ached, but he ruthlessly ruled his face into mock sternness. The wild wolf girl would sooner tear out her own throat than accept his pity.

She sat up straighter, happy to play along now.

“One third of the soft fruit harvests in Highgarden have the black blight,” she said in Common.

“This is known,” he replied, unimpressed.

“No disease. Old flower burn fruit, coin, coin, coin,” she replied haltingly, in High Valyrian.

He paused, then responded flawlessly in the same tongue, “The Queen of Thorns destroyed a third of the soft fruit harvest to inflate its value at market, all to increase profits for House Tyrell.”

She translated his words, and then nodded. He inclined his head in appreciation this time, both at her second new thing, and at the cunning wastefulness of Olenna Tyrell. 

‘The roses of Highgarden cannot eat gold,’ he thought. 'The nobles of the South still don't believe Summer is over.' 

“Perhaps they made jam,” Arya said in Common, as she stole a piece of cheddar from Jaqen’s cheeseboard. 

“A girl has a sweet tooth,” he said fondly.

“Just so,” she replied, unrepentantly. 

He considered her words closely, and suddenly realized what she really meant. Olenna Tyrell played the long game, and played it well by all accounts. Food waste profited no one, but if she had converted the 'blighted' fruit into hidden jars of preserves, those would be worth their weight in gold should the Winter prove to be a long one, effectively doubling the profit on both sides of the seasons.

'Clever, sneaky rose,' he realized in appreciation, then lifted an eyebrow at his former apprentice. 'Clever, sneaky wolf,' he amended. He inclined his head again, and Arya preened with obvious pleasure.

They were finishing up the last of their meal now, and sharing the cheese as their final course. He looked at her expectantly, his eyebrows raised as he finished his ale.

She sipped the end of her ale, then looked at him with trepidation. In Common, she stated, “Lady Stark came to Oldtown twelve nights ago. She was seen near the Starry Sept.”

He held her grey gaze with his own, and she felt the weight of his promise in his eyes. 

_We will find her together, yes?_

She made to look away, but he caught a hand with his own, and brought it to his lips. She watched as he brushed the knuckles with his lips. She let him press her fingers to his cheek, and felt him kiss the palm of her hand. 

Then he licked it, naughtily.

She snatched it back, her face heating in scandal, and he let an eyebrow raise in nonchalance. 

She stood up and said, “I’m taking my shower now. You can join me upstairs, after you pay the bill.”

He sighed dramatically.

_Valar dohaeris._

“And you owe me a story!” 

He grinned, and went back to the bar for a nightcap and the bill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://stravaganzastravaganza.blogspot.com/2017/01/a-curious-history-of-food-and-drink.html
> 
> Sauce Pour Lamprey (transcribed by Ian Crofton from 'A Noble Boke of Cokery', a manuscript by an unknown author from the mid-fifteenth century, England)
> 
> Take a quick [living] lamprey, and let him bleed at the navel, and let him bleed in an earthen pot; And scald him with hay, and wash him clean, and put him [on a spit]; and set the vessel with the blood under the lamprey while he roasteth, and keep the liquor that droppeth out of him; And then take onions, and myce [dice] them small, And put them in a vessel with wine or water, And let them parboil right well; And then take away the water, and put them in a fair vessel; And then take powder of canell [cinnamon or cassia] and wine, And draw them through a strainer, and cast [them to] the onions, and set over the fire, and let them boil; And cast a little vinegar and parsley thereto, and a little pepper; and then take the blood and the dropping of the lamprey, and cast thereto [and] let boil together till it be a little thick, and cast thereto powder ginger, vinegar, salt, and a little saffron; And when the lamprey is roasted enough, lay him in a fair charger, and cast all the sauce upon him, and so serve him forth.
> 
> (The show added a crust, and so did I.)


	3. The Lorathi's Tale

She took her shower and found him waiting in the bed, a single candle burning in a sconce on the wall. The room was furnished with warm, creamy frescoed walls stencilled with patterns of thorny vines and tiny red roses. A single large pine wardrobe stood on one wall, and a dresser with a mirror sat against the other. Their bags lay neatly on either side of their bed, but their weapons were on their bedside tables, loaded and ready for use. 

They had no need to hide from each other, and anyone forcing themselves into their room would not be a friend. The weapons glistened in the candlelight, a deadly promise. 

“Is a girl ready for her bedtime story?” the Lorathi teased.

She rolled her eyes, but she privately admitted she was excited. Jaqen never spoke about where he came from before coming to the House of Black and White, and she knew very little about the culture of Lorath. She wasn’t even sure if he really did hail from that city, or if it was another lie that she had yet to catch from his game of faces. 

She decided it didn’t really matter, at least not for the promised tale. A Lorathi story was owed, and Jaqen said he would deliver. 

‘And _a man_ always keeps his promises’, she reflected.

She tossed the damp towel onto the floor, earning a huff of disapproval from her lover, and slipped into the bed, clammy and naked, wrapping an arm around his bare chest. She tangled her legs around his, and settled in to listen.

“Long ago, there was a boy who loved his father. The boy was small, and the father was a fisherman. For three days and three nights, the boy and the father fished in the bay of Lorath. They caught nothing, and it felt to the boy and the father that the gods were testing them with their cruelty.”

Arya shifted, and absently ran her hand down Jaqen’s chest, remembering too many times when she had gone hungry. She felt the fullness of her belly now, and pressed it closer to his hip, relishing the feel of being warm and sated. 

“The next day was a holy day to the ancient gods of Lorath, whose names have been forgotten. There was to be no fishing or hunting that day. No toiling in the fields, or gathering of crops. All were to worship the gods in prayerful silence, but the boy and the father were too hungry. They could not ignore the cravings of their bellies, for they were starving. So the father said to his son, ‘Leave the village and go to the river to fish. I will go to the bay. May the gods forgive us, and we will eat at last.’ The boy was dutiful, unlike a lovely girl—” 

She pinched a nipple, and he slapped her hand away with a chuckle.

“And he went to the river to fish the next morning, his belly shrunken like unto his small fist. At first, the gods seemed to have truly cursed the boy and his father. They fished all morning, and caught nothing. They fished all afternoon, and still they were not successful.”

Arya felt her eyes drooping.

“A priest, who was returning to the temple by the sacred river, saw the boy fishing in its waters in defiance of the holy day, and warned him that the gods should not be mocked, not even by small boys. The boy ignored the priest, and continued to fish. At last, he was rewarded with a huge herring, on which was attached a large, wriggling, misshapen riverworm: a lamprey.”

Arya wrinkled her nose.

“Disgusting,” she said.

“The boy thought so too,” he said. “The creature had seven holes on each side of its round, smooth head, and two bright blue eyes. The boy screamed, and pulled it hard from his prize. Grudgingly, the creature pulled away from the fish, but bit onto the boy’s finger. Its mouth was a horror, with rows and rows of teeth, and it held on with all of its sharp little teeth, digging all the way in to the bone.”

“Well, at least he had the herring,” Arya said, ever practical.

“Just so,” said Jaqen. “The priest, having heard boy’s scream, came back, and seeing the struggle, warned the boy that the creature was not what it seemed. The boy tried to pull the creature off of his finger, but the lamprey held on. The boy tried to use his knife to tear the lamprey's flesh, but the toughened skin merely deflected his blade. The boy cursed the priest, who watched as the boy finally resorted to cutting off his finger to free himself of the hideous creature. He threw the lamprey back into the holy river, the riverworm whose teeth still gripped the boy's finger, then wrapped his maimed hand in his tunic, and ran home to his father. With great pride, the boy presented the enormous herring. His father embraced him with tears of joy, and they ate their fill at last, in defiance of the ancient gods of Lorath.”

“Why do I get the feeling this is going to get nasty,” said Arya.

“Lovely girl, when have the gods ever been kind to hungry children and desperate fathers?" asked the Lorathi. 

“Just so,” she whispered.

“The boy grew strong, and with sheer determination had trained to become a warrior, a sellsword able to support his father. His father still fished in the bay every morning and returned to their hut every evening, but as he aged, and the boy became a man, the father became stooped and ever feebler. The son decided to leave the village to seek his fortune, but promised his father he would return in three years with the means to settle their lives in comfort at last. The father, reluctant, agreed. For there comes a time in every man’s life when the sun begins to set, and another man’s sun rises. It is not for a man to stand in his son’s way.”

Arya thought of Jon, her brother-by-heart, and Bran, her brother by blood, and nodded, aching for her pack. It was not for her to stand in anyone’s way, but how she missed them. 

‘The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,’ she thought in remembrance of her father, her mother, and her brothers Robb and Rikkon. Jaqen, sensing her melancholy and grief, kissed the top of her head, and squeezed her hand. 

With him, she was not alone. With him, they were a pack of a sorts.

_Sansa, where are you?_

“For three years, the son bled and sweat for gold and silver. As he amassed his fortune, his village began to experience strange things. Women and children went missing when they went to the river to wash their laundry. The fish disappeared from the sacred pools and rivers, from the bay and from the streams. At last, cattle and sheep disappeared in the commons near the temple. When the priest was called to investigate, he discovered a giant worm had emerged from the river and wrapped itself around the hallowed ground near the ancient forest leading from the river to the sea.

“The lamprey had grown monstrous, and its coils had rubbed furrows deep into the ground. No children could dare approach the river now, for the monster would strike at them and eat them whole. The cattle and sheep were languishing for lack of water, for the worm would snatch them if they approached the sacred streams and pools that were fed by the river, and so their milk dried up, and the villagers suffered still further.

“The villagers were poor, hardy fisherfolk, but none were fierce warriors like the boy, who had trained hard to become a sellsword. The huge worm ate all who tried to kill it, and grew larger with every meal. Finally, the father found a solution. He filled seven waterskins full of milk from the last cows in the village, crafted a huge trencher for the hideous creature, luted it with the good yellow clay, and placing it near the monster, filled it with the milk. It plunged its head into the makeshift manger, drank its full, and like an infant, fell into a milk coma.”

She laughed. She couldn’t help it. She’d seen Rikkon do exactly that as a baby after her mother had fed him, and for once, the thought of her baby brother and her mother didn’t make her ache with the sadness of having lost them both. 

She entangled her legs around her fellow assassin, warm and safe, and listened to the purr of his voice as he continued.

“In the three years the sellsword earned his coin, the villagers suffered. The worm grew larger, needing ever more milk, and when the cows ran dry, and the sheep could not produce enough, the villagers were forced to sacrifice first their cattle, then an elderly woman here, an ailing child there, and finally the youngest child, the sickest woman, or the oldest man. The priest stood by, watching, but keeping the secret of the boy and the father. The day arrived when it was the father’s turn at last, but the gods are cruel and merciful, and the young man had returned. Instead of the welcome he had expected, he was horrified.

“The village stood in near ruins. His father’s hut stood tilting to one side, and upon entering, he saw his father laying on a filthy cot, his eyes closed in acceptance and despair. He ran to him, exclaiming, ‘What has happened to the village? What has happened to a man?!’

“The father whispered all to his son, and the young man recognised with horror the description of the lamprey that had bitten his finger so many years ago. He heard with shame all of the horrors that his village had endured, and hardening his heart, he took up his spear and shield and ran. He ran and did not stop until he stood at the temple by the river. There he fell to his knees, and beseeched the gods for help. The priest heard his cries and stood over the man as he cried out in prayer.

“‘A man must kill a monster,’ the young man said. ‘If a price is owed, a man will pay.’

“‘Only death can pay for life,’ said the priest.

“‘How much life has it taken,’ said the young man, with fear in his heart.

“‘Much,’ said the priest. ‘And often.’

“The young man bowed his head, dug his palms into his eyes, and wept openly.

“‘A man will pay,’ vowed the young man, ‘if the gods will help, a man will pay.’

“The priest considered the young man at his feet, turned on his heel, and stepped into the temple.

'“Come," said the priest.

“He stood and followed. The priest proceeded to cover the warrior with armour and a helmet covered in spikes and sharpened blades. He took the young warrior's spear, gave him a sword with strict instructions, and sent him on his way.

“The man soon stood in front of the giant, swollen riverworm, and saw that its mouth now stood twice as tall as his shoulders. The tough little teeth that had once latched onto a boy’s finger were now the length of a man's arms and legs. The monster had dug itself into the ground, where it could never be torn free, or hacked to pieces. Its body had become encased in thick layers of hardened mud, and as the man approached, it roared, showing its many rows of teeth, and its seven holes around its monstrous head. It seemed to the man that its bright blue eyes stared with recognition as he approached.

“The man stood, dropped his shield, held his sword in both hands, and charged into the worm’s throat. The worm shrieked its delight! The meal it had craved for so long, the one it had waited for, had faced it at last. It had smelled its return on the sea breeze, and the winds had whispered the day had finally arrived when the lamprey would at last have its revenge.”

“Revenge?” said Arya, surprised.

“Sweet girl,” said the assassin, gently chiding. “Did you think that there was only one father in this tale?”

She reared back a bit to look up at him, her large brown eyebrows knitted in confusion as she tried to put together what he meant.

“The lamprey…had a child?”

“With his mate, he would have spawned thousands,” he replied. “But the villages had been exploiting the river and the bay for generations, selling the smoked and pickled herrings down the river and the seas and beyond, and they loved the little eggs most of all. The fish were in decline. This was why the boy and his father were starving. The fat herring the lamprey had found would have sustained him and his mate for their mating season, but for the boy and his treachery.”

Arya couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was she supposed to feel sorry for a lamprey?

“Instead, the boy stole the fish, leaving the lampreys to feed only on the boy’s finger, and when his mate died, shrivelled in starvation with her eggs wasted away, the lamprey prayed to the gods of the river and the sea, and the gods of the rock and the clay. The riverworm knew no words, but it knew that something had gone terribly wrong, that the world had become unbalanced, and that a payment was owed, a debt was to be collected, and only a vessel was needed. The lamprey prayed with all its heart to be that vessel, and its prayers were heard, for there is no creature, great or small, that will not attract the attention of the gods when blood is spilt, and a sacrifice is offered.”

This, they both knew.

“So what happened,” she prompted, now fully awake. Blood and vengeance was in the tale now, and now she was not sleepy at all.

“The boy, who had become a warrior, charged into the mouth of the lamprey, armed and covered in spikes and blades. The lamprey bit into the man, but could not tear into the iron suit, for the priest had also blessed it with the favour of the gods, for the man had said he would pay the price.”

“Typical turncoat gods,” said the girl, suddenly angry on behalf of the lamprey. The Lorathi held in a chuckle, but she felt his ribs move, and she poked him viciously. He grabbed the offending finger, then smoothed her hands against his chest again, smiling down at her fondly.

“The man worked his way deep into the lamprey, hacking and cutting it to pieces,” he said. “He found the bones of women, children, dogs and cats. Men and birds, cattle and sheep. All manner of creatures, the worm had devoured. He tore the creature to shreds from the inside out, working his way through until at last, he came to its end. He found himself at the mouth of the river, where it emptied into the sea.

“At the beach stood the priest, who held a horn in his hands. He said to the bloody warrior, ‘The gods curse you and nine generations of your house for killing their vessel. If you would escape this curse, you must kill the first living thing you see.’

“‘Then why should I not kill you, priest?’, asked the young man.

“In answer, the priest dissolved into river water and sea mist, into muddy cascades and rocky pebbles, leaving only the horn laying upon the wet sand. The man quickly snatched it up before the sea could wash it away, taking with it his only hope to escape punishment. He blew the horn at the sea, hoping to scare up some birds by the shore, but there were none. He ran towards the village, blowing the horn, hoping to startle some sheep, but there were none, for the worm had eaten them all. He blew the horn at the forest, hoping to flush some game, but they too had disappeared, hunted to death by the villagers.

“At last, he came towards his father’s hut, and in trepidation, he called to his father.

"‘Send the dog out,’ he cried. ‘Do not come out, but send the dog!’

“The father was too overjoyed that his son had survived, and did not obey. He ran out, and so the first living creature the young man saw was his beloved father, whom he could not bring himself to kill.

“And so, for nine generations, the young man and his house paid in blood. The young man and his father returned to the bloody lamprey to dig out the bodies of the dead, and when they finally excavated them all, and torn the remains of the lamprey from the stone of the earth, they found they had discovered a perfectly intact maze. The villagers suspected the gods were at work, and that the man and his father were to blame, and so they exiled them forever. 

“They left for the high peaks above the bay, and eventually the young man took a wife. Their first child perished of the bloody croup, and the man despaired, knowing the gods still watched and demanded their due. The second child lived, but the young man and his wife soon died of the blue welts disease that swept the bay when the child was merely six years of age, leaving the aged father, now grandfather, to toil to raise his grandchild on his own. This child, it is said, grew thin like a reed but strong as a walrus, and buried his grandfather by the lamprey’s maze, in the old way, first by exposing his body for the crows and the gulls to take to the sky, then by placing his bleached bones under a massive cairn so that no animals could dare to disturb his rest. 

“When the child had become a man, it is said that he returned to the sea, following the ways of his father and grandfather, but it is not known what happened to him, or to his children, or his children’s children. It is said that for generations ever after, they toiled in service to the gods, remaining pious and hopeful. Looking for redemption and forgiveness, and staying ever mindful of the gods…. and of lampreys.”

He looked down at Arya. Her eyes were shining, and she looked peaceful.

“Thank you, Jaqen,” she said. 

She so rarely thanked the man, usually opting for sarcasm or a quick barb. Truthfully, she was often very grateful for him, for the little things he did to make her smile, even the ways he could infuriate her, but the man had such an ego, even as she had such a temper, and so he did not often hear statements of gratitude from her, and she did not think to offer them.

He pulled her up to his lips and kissed her gently.

“A girl likes lamprey now?” he teased gently.

“Ugh,” she said against his lips. “Don’t ruin it.”

“Beloved girl,” he said, licking against her laughing lips, and taking her into his arms, he pressed her into the mattress, and proceeded to distract her even further from any more thoughts about missing sisters, cruel gods, and generational curses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaqen's story is based on the very famous story of the Lambton Worm, with a Lorathi twist.


	4. Black Slug Grease

A young woman with slightly wavy dark hair and a man with red and white hair left The Blushing Lady before dawn, taking their bags but leaving instructions that they would return in the evening.

This was a lie - probably.

The assassins preferred not to stay in the same location twice, but it never hurt to keep a room in their back pocket, just in case.

As they walked in the pre-dawn shadows, the girl became a middle-aged woman with mousy brown hair and nondescript plain clothes, while the man lost his shoulder-length, fiery red locks and strange white strands to a short, sandy brown cut, liberally streaked with iron grey. His shoulders hunched over with fatigue, and from his bag, he had donned a battered blue maintenance uniform splattered with paint and grease that had seen better days.

The middle-aged woman was now Anna, a cleaner in the city, one of thousands who walked briskly in the early morning after having spent the small hours cleaning the city’s establishments of the rich and famous. Her husband Paulus kept pace by her side, his stride a testament to his weariness as a chronically overworked and criminally underpaid maintenance man.

Such was life for the smallfolk of Oldtown. It had always been this way, and likely always would be.

It was all the same to Him of Many Faces, who would one day take the rich and poor alike. Death was the great leveller.

No one paid them any attention as they boarded trams criss-crossing the canals and streets of Oldtown. No one looked twice at their weary faces, gritty with dirt, or the crescents of their fingernails, ragged with wear, the testaments to their lives of hard labour. No one questioned their faded rucksacks, assuming the heavy bags contained the accoutrements of their trade.

They were not wrong, nor were they precisely correct.

Anna and Paulus took a circuitous route to the Sept District, in case they were being followed. It was a sensible precaution, though privately, neither thought it likely that they had drawn any attention at the docks. Still, it only took one well-placed knife, one well-aimed bullet, and one of the last of the Starks would fall. They had taken a risk in using their own faces the previous evening, but Arya had thought it unlikely anyone would recognise either of them this far south from King’s Landing.

Still, they took their time getting to the Starry Sept, getting cheap builders' teas at a caravan pitch near a construction site, giving Anna the chance to commiserate over the misty weather with the workers who were starting their day like all the other smallfolk of the city.

“Winter’s comin’,” said one in a thick, Northern accent, and Anna stirred the milk and sugar into her tea, saying, “No, surely not yet.”

“Aye, that’s what you Southerners always say,” sneered the Northerner. “No, not yet. But my cousin in Barrowton’s seen some of the first signs already. Winter’s comin’, and make no mistake.”

The workers grumbled and snuffled into the drinks, and Anna caught Paulus’s eyes with her own.

Time to move on.

They returned their empty clay mugs to the vendors and tipped them with a few coppers, as per the custom, and walked the rest of the way to the Sept District in companionable silence.

The art of surveillance was all about blending into the background. Being a smudge in the detail. Not drawing attention to one’s self, unless it was to provide a distraction from where the real action was occurring. Never being memorable, unless it was to be so memorable as to overwhelm the senses as to what was really going on.

This morning was all about trying to catch wind of Sansa and Ramsay, if he was with her, without either of them being aware.

The subterfuge would not have been necessary, Arya reflected, deep in her persona as Anna, if Sansa was in Oldtown by herself. But the last time she’d returned to Ramsay Bolton, all of the Starks, excluding Sansa of course, had been slapped with restraining orders to stay no less than half a kilometre from the Bolton bastard at all times.

It hadn’t stopped a lovely girl or a man from breaking into the Bolton estate at Hornwood or the Dreadfort in search of Sansa whenever the periods of absence became too long, or whenever Arya damned well felt like visiting her sister, whatever the consequences.

And that’s when Bolton had begun training the dogs.

So many things could a Faceless Man magic away, but the innate smell of a certain furious, lovely girl under a cured mask could never be completely eradicated, no matter how much bathing, scrubbing, and powdering the girl had undertaken in preparation for scaling the walls and confronting her sister.

Her sister, bruised and battered, who wept under her hands and said she was fine, that it would all be okay, but she must leave very quickly now, before the dogs could find them both together---

Anna growled under her breath, despite herself, breaking character.

“If she’s gone back to him, I swear I’ll drop the dogs first, then him, then her,” she muttered in an accent that sounded closer to Northern than it ought.

He grunted in response. Paulus was not much of a talker. This was one reason Anna had married him, he reflected. He worked with his hands, and didn’t speak much. Anna though, was a chatter-bird.

They sat on the steps near the Starry Sept, and pretended to relax as the rays of the sun finally crested over the horizon, illuminating the building and the fine mansions that surrounded the sept. The plants and trees that adorned the grounds spilled out into a lush sanctuary garden, but Anna paid this little mind.

Arya, hidden deep in Anna’s mind, scoffed at it all. Give her a godswood any day. There were no weirwoods here, having long ago been burnt away by the First Men, no heart trees with their strange faces carved into the trunks. The godswoods of the South were extinct, and the Seven were full of shit, no matter what her mother had taught her. There was only one god she recognised now. And she thumbed her nose at its temple in Braavos daily, and most especially at one devoted Lorathi priest, whenever she had the chance, which was much and often.

They waited until the temple doors opened, the hinges groaning theatrically, scaring the fat pigeons and little birds that had come to rest under the eaves and near the steps.

“The Seven can’t afford to oil their front door?” said Anna, a trifle loudly.

Paulus chuckled quietly. He found his wife to be delightfully blasphemous. It was one reason she had married him.

A septon dressed in heavy white robes heard her as he secured the heavy doors to the sides of the building, and said in a disapproving tone, “Can I help you?”

“Just takin’ in the air, septon,” she replied evenly. “No law against it, is there? Though I couldn’t help but hear them doors opening up with all that racket and groanin’ and carryin’ on. Like a choir of the damned singing in them joints, if you pardon me, septon.”

The man’s lips thinned to a white line, and Paulus hid a smile under his thick brown and grey beard. She always infuriated authority figures. It was another reason he’d married her, he reflected.

“I could fix it for you, if you like,” she added in a rush, seeing his anger at her impiety and impunity. “I’m the best cleaner this side o’ the Honeywine! Got the best grease I make me’self, using the fattest black slugs I collect from me sister’s garden! You won’t find better quality, I swear on the Seven---”

“Peace, woman,” the septon held his arms up, yawning in the light. “If the Smith moves you to oil the door, I won’t stand in your way.”

Anna grinned and gestured to Paulus, who responded with a grunt and a sigh. The septon wasn’t wrong, though he wasn’t precisely correct either.

A lovely girl lived in Anna, and was closely guided by the Smith, who mended the world with his hammer and strength. Wordlessly, he handed the black grease pot to Anna, who deftly worked it into joints of the stained oak doors. Then Anna lifted the latches from where they affixed the doors to the building, and watched in satisfaction as they slammed noisily shut, though the hinges moved without a whisper now.

Anna allowed herself a malicious little smile, which she quickly schooled into one of professional pride in a job well done.

There was a commotion from inside as holy brothers and sisters came to the front doors to investigate the racket, only to be shushed and lead away by the embarrassed septon, who glared distrustfully at the now innocently-faced Anna, who busied herself with cleaning her hands on a rag and tucking away the pot into Paulus’s rucksack.

It really was the best grease for all their weapons and gear, but Arya made Jaqen collect the slugs.

“Right,” the septon said with a scowl. “What brings you to the sept at such an hour?”

“Here to celebrate our weddin’ anniversary,” she said as she stood up, holding her still greasy palms to Paulus, who took them up without a word.

“We promised we’d come to the Starry Sept to offer our prayers every seven years, after gettin’ together properly an’ all,” she continued. “And we keep our promises, innit?”

“Mm,” said Paulus in agreement, his tone low and gravelly. It was the first he’d said to her all morning since leaving The Blushing Lady.

The septon nodded. At last, he was on familiar ground.

“Yes, well, come in then.” He pulled the heavy doors open again, and secured their latches against the outside walls once more.

They walked into the Starry Sept, and Anna made her way straight to the Smith, with Paulus in tow.

“I’ll leave you here,” said the septon. “Stay as long as you need.”

“Oh, we’ll be here a while, won’t we?” said Anna to her husband.

“Mm,” he said again, in complete understanding.

They were going to stay as long as it took for their prey to appear.

The septon quickly walked away, not wanting to see if the mouthy woman found something else to fix, and quickly set himself to work with the morning’s many tasks in the depths of the crypts below. Members of the laity came and went as the hours passed. Anna and Paulus took their time at each statue and prayer niche dedicated to the Seven, looking pious and intent, though it would have been hard for anyone to tell if they were standing at prayer, or simply waiting around for something more interesting to happen.

If they both lingered longer at the Stranger than any other, perhaps it could have been brushed off as a lingering hope of a young married couple for protection against early widowhood, or in sorrow for miscarried babes.

The truth was known to the Many Faced God, who heard every whisper of their true hearts and minds.

_If my sister is here in this city, guide me to her. And should enemies surround her, let me bring them to you, bloody and twitching at your feet._

Anna’s face was immobile in the sweet temple incense that wrapped around her body like a shroud. Deliberate, that piece of her deceptive outfit, in case of any Bolton bloodhounds.

Paulus’s face looked as hard as marble, and his lips were mostly covered by a scratchy beard that needed trimming after a hard night’s work at the docks. The scars on his neck and hands attested to a life of skilled and unskilled labour, and his face bore lines of early weariness that so often carved into those who carry the burdens of life and death much too heavily and for far too long.

_Shelter us in Your shadows, oh Him of Many Faces. Help a man keep the one whom You appear to favour above all others in this time and place. Let us give the gift to many in Your service, before You give the gift to a lovely girl._

It was a good face for a man, who churned not too far below, buried under a dead man’s mask; a priest who prayed most devoutly to his god.

_When You give a lovely girl Your gift, would You not also consider a man?_

The Lorathi turned to gaze at his lovely girl, who lay hidden under the mask of Anna. His breath turned suddenly harsh.

She looked back at him, catching the shine of gold in his brown eyes, which shimmered in the candlelight that glowed all around them.

 _Part me not from her ~_  
_Keep him safe in my arms ~_  
_He is mine and I am hers ~_  
_She is mine and I am his ~_  
_…shadow…. ~_  
_…shield…. ~_  
_……pack…. ~_  
_…….beloved….~_

They had stopped looking at the Stranger at some point, staring into the pools of each other’s eyes. He grasped her neck and their lips crashed together at the foot of the god, and for a moment, they almost lost control of their faces. She buried a hand in the nape of his neck, pulling him down to kiss him deeply, ignoring the foreign, scratchy feel of his beard, and the unfamiliar feel of his lips on her alien tongue. The taste of him was the same. He moaned exquisitely into her mouth, _just so_ , and she swept her tongue against his, wanting to hear it again and again.

The sound reverberated perfectly in the seven-walled echo chamber of the sept, to join with quiet giggle.

They froze. They knew that sound.

Anna and Paulus jumped away, embarrassed, and tucked their hands into their workman jumpsuits and pockets.

Sansa Stark walked into the temple with a huge, scarred man beside her. Her fiery red hair was swept back into a perfectly coifed bun at the back of her head, and she wore a buttery soft black lambskin leather jacket, under which she wore a silky pale blue blouse, printed with trailing blood-red heart tree leaves and silvery threads. Black jeans and dainty black leather boots, probably the latest style and costing a fortune, completed her outfit. The effect was both striking and subtle, a declaration of the Old Gods that could just as easily been explained away as an affectation of Northern fashion. 

Arya knew better. She also knew that her sister followed the Faith of the Seven, in deference to the teachings of their mother.

The man behind her wore a black t-shirt with the words ' _Elder Pattern_ ' in an old-fashioned script printed in white. It stretched tightly over his broad, muscled chest. He wore a battered motorcycle jacket and carried two helmets. His powerful legs were encased in faded grey jeans that ended in leather boots with squared toe ends; Anna was willing to bet money they had steel toes.

“Please, don’t stop on my account,” said Sansa, her murmuring voice bouncing off the acoustic walls of the septon, as she walked up the centre of the Starry Sept.

Anna winced.

“Beg pardon, m’lady,” she said, tugging a forelock and pulling her bag away from the foot of the statue. “We just got a bit carried away. Didn’t mean no offense.”

“That’s quite all right. Though I’ve never seen anyone be inspired by the Stranger quite like that before,” said Sansa with an elegant little snort. She had walked to the niche bearing a strong looking man with a beard and an almost angry expression and selected a thick yellow taper. The Father. Anna carefully watched her light the candle, all the while keeping an eye on the brutish-looking scarred stranger who lurked close by.

Sansa looked hale and intact, but Arya knew from bitter experience that this could mean absolutely nothing. As a trained physician and master torturer, Ramsay Bolton was an expert in inflicting wounds that would never show, and Sansa had quickly become equally adept at hiding her bruises, cuts and even broken bones under clever makeup and long layers of clothing that smoothed away all the ragged edges of her broken body as though the injuries had never existed.

It took all of Arya’s training not to grab her sister right there and run, but she had to find out more about what was going on.

Who was this man with Sansa? Was he an agent of Ramsay Bolton, or something worse? Was he a new abuser? If she just took her and ran, would she just return to him?

The dark man said nothing, so Anna did what she did best: put her foot in it.

“Seven, you’re a scary one,” she said. “Bout near shit myself when I saw you just now, didn’t I, my love?”

“Mm,” said Paulus, who had drooped back slightly into the shadows, presenting a meek target to the heavily muscled man. Nothing to see here, he indicated with his non-threatening posture. Just a tired maintenance man past his prime with a mouthier, slightly inappropriate wife.

The big, scarred man glanced over and discounted them at once. Smallfolk workers rarely warranted more. He searched with his clear grey eyes over the interior of the building for exits and entrances, the number of stained glass windows, and potential threats within and without. A bodyguard or ex-military. The posture and manoeuvring was a dead giveaway. She looked with avid interest at the left side of his face and the ruin of his lips. Anna was a rude woman; she openly gawked, and made no attempt to disguise her horror.

“May the Father Above grant me justice,” murmured Sansa, as she bowed with difficulty, hissing in pain at the foot of the statue, perhaps a touch too close to the lit taper.

Anna’s eyes narrowed to slits as she watched the scarred man place the helmets on the floor and quickly reach the red-haired woman, who moved with stiffness to stand upright again. Arya had seen Sansa move like that before, when Ramsay had been particularly vicious in flaying open her sister’s back with canes and knives. She had pulled Sansa away more than once and stitched her sister’s ravaged snowy-white skin each time she had refused to see a maester, weeping into her hands in impotent rage and swearing each time that she would never do it again for her, not if she returned to the monster of Hornwood and the Dreadfort, but in the end she always did. She loved her too damned much to do anything else.

And so she knew all too well what Sansa looked and sounded like when she was in deep pain, how she moved when her ribs and back were wrapped in bandages so that she could breathe and bend, and her brown eyes tapered into hateful, vengeful slashes of dark intent directed at the back of the man who stood beside her sister.

Anna was now entirely fabricated of malice and deception, and she turned all of her thoughts to vengeance.

“Told you already, little bird,” rumbled the menace who stood over Sansa’s shoulder as she walked to the Mother, stepping quickly away from the candle that she lit. “There’s no justice that we don’t make for ourselves.”

“Shh,” said Sansa, with her secret smile. Arya had always hated that smile when it was directed at her, and apparently it irritated the man too, for he grunted with obvious distaste at the entire proceedings.

“And I told you that you could wait outside,” she reminded him, a hint of steel in her voice.

“No.”

And that was the end of that discussion.

Anna concentrated. Was he staying because he had been commanded by Bolton? Must be. Her hands trembled.

 _Rule your face_ , she commanded herself deep inside, but it was so hard. Surely, here was all the evidence she needed that her sister was in trouble. She itched to take out her Valyrian Catspaw and end it now, to take her sister away, but she knew that would be a mistake. She needed to know more. Where were the dogs? Where was Ramsay? Was Sansa just being allowed time away to pray, while Ramsay luxuriated in some bolthole in the city? She bit her lip, trying to think of a way to ingratiate herself, when Sansa looked up from her prayers, turned, and stared at her.

“Is there something the matter?” Sansa asked her baldly.

“I just…,” said Anna feebly. “I wondered if you might need anything, m’lady,” she responded, weakly. “You seemed a might wobbly there, and me mum would skin me alive if I didn’t offer help to a woman in need, in the house of the Seven, may the gods be kind.”

Sansa ducked her head and smiled, but shook it slightly.

“No, but thank you,” she replied. “I don’t need any help.”

“Should mind your own business,” grumbled the large man, who angled himself closer, assessing Anna more intently now.

“Sandor, it’s fine,” said Sansa. “She’s just being kind.”

“No one’s just kind,” said Sandor, “’specially not in this world. Haven’t you gotten that in your fuckin’ head yet?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, but reached out and patted Anna's rough, greasy hand apologetically. She moved with grace and dignity, every inch the Lady of Winterfell, but even this simple movement seemed to cause her pain, and Arya’s rage built inside to an incandescent inferno. Ramsay must be here, somewhere in the city, and this dog was his creature, sent to guard and keep his prize toy.

It sickened her that Sansa could return to him, but she would deal with that later. First, she had to figure out where Ramsay was hiding her, and that meant following these two.

But not in these faces.

“Right-o,” she called out. “Nice meetin’ you folks, but we’d best be off now. Got places to go, people to see. An' work to be done!”

“Mm,” said Paulus, who had watched the entire exchange and moved behind Sandor like a shadow. He watched with satisfaction as the larger man fairly jumped out of his skin in surprise at the sound of his voice.

 _A man is a shield in the shadows for a lovely girl, a Valyrian knife wrapped in incense and darkness_ , thought the Lorathi in worship to his god, as he offered prayers of thanksgiving to His aspect as the Stranger in the land of Westeros.

“The fuck did you come from?" snarled the tattooist, though the girl and the man had no clue that this was his trade now. They only recognised the innate killer, even as Sansa did not.

“Really ought to put a bell on him,” she said cheerfully, as she walked towards Paulus and hooked her greasy hand in his.

“Seven fucking hells,” cursed Sandor, watching the couple as they departed, not taking his eyes off of them until he could no longer see their silhouettes against the brightness of the light streaming in from the doors of the sept.

Then he turned his attention back to Sansa as she continued to make her prayers at each statue of the Seven. She lingered longest at the foot of the Stranger, her face thoughtful, and her eyes saddened.

“What is it?” he prompted. In such a short amount of time, he had grown to hate seeing that look on her face.

“Nothing,” she responded instantly. Then, seeing his disbelief and irritation, she amended, “Well, not nothing. It’s just… the Stranger reminds me of my sister. I haven’t seen her in a long while. Not since she left Winterfell after…. well, after she was badly wounded. I’ve had a few emails and text messages, so I know she survived. But it’s been a long time, and… I guess I just miss her sometimes.”

“Your sister reminds you of the god of fuckin' Death?” Sandor muttered. “I’ve heard of sisters fighting one another, but that’s taking the piss a bit.”

She laughed. He looked at her with surprise, but she just looked up with tears shining in her eyes. He didn’t know how else to respond, but she just smiled, then looked back at the Stranger.

“Arya Horseface,” she whispered. “Arya Underfoot. Arya, the bravest person I’ve ever known. And the most terrifying nightmare on a battlefield. You better hope you never get on her bad side, Sandor Clegane,” she said with a warning that didn’t quite reach a note of good humour.

“I think I can handle one little girl,” he sneered.

“Not this girl,” she replied as she lit a taper and prayed to the Stranger. She kept her prayer silent, but Him of Many Faces heard it all the same.

_Keep her safe, wherever she is, for we are pack, and I love her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Black slug (Arion ater L.) is a common gastropod in forested areas of Sweden. In pre-industrial Swedish society and up to the beginning of the 20th century, slugs were used as a regular or temporary source for grease to lubricate wooden axle-trees. Although the custom is mentioned in written records from the 18th century, it is an otherwise almost undocumented practice. However, through an advertisement in a popular nationwide radio program, it was possible to record contemporary oral statements about this practice from a few decades ago. It seems to have been a widespread practice to substitute or improve the tar as cart grease with slugs in the older days. These animals, a freely available resource for everyone, were often gathered by children. The practice survived as long as the wooden carts and wagons were used, for example, in transporting hay. The study demonstrates that it is still possible to gather information about older practices in highly modernized societies, utilizing mass media as a way to reach informants." - Svanberg, I., 2006. "Black slugs ( _Arion ater_ ) as grease: a case study of technical use of gastropods in pre-industrial Sweden," Journal of Ethnobiology, 26(2), 299-309.


	5. Zorse Mostro

Two gardeners in simple, dark brown cotton over-trousers tended the cherry trees decorating the lush garden surrounding the sept. A tall, willowy woman with fire-kissed hair tightly twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck appeared in the wan sunlight. By her side, a hulking dark menace lurked, his malevolence clear to anyone with eyes. 

_Stay back_ , his countenance snarled to the world. _Mine._

The gardeners tended the branches, but their eyes watched the two figures as they walked towards an antique-looking Zorse M900 motorcycle. It looked well maintained at least, thought the older female gardener. 

“…time to head back…,” she overheard the man saying.

She watched with narrow, brown eyes as the red-headed woman meekly ducked her head, accepting the spare helmet from the muscled figure at the bike. She scowled as the powerfully built man ensured his passenger had secured her straps correctly. Then he put his own helmet, hiding his hideously scarred visage. He climbed onto the glossy red Zorse, its naked engine and exposed chrome glistening in the sun. He turned the bike, and the back of his leather jacket was hand-decorated to read _Elder Pattern_.

The same name as his t-shirt, and the same antiquated scripted font. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

He gestured at the woman. Without hesitation, she reached for his broad shoulders, sat behind him, tucked her feet daintily against its sides, and wrapped her arms around his powerful waist.

He moved off slowly as the gardeners watched their every movement. The bike was loud, drawing eyes from the tourists and residents alike. The two were soon away in a guttural roar to the mutters of the crowds around the garden and the sept. The gardeners looked down and then continued their task. They pruned a rose bush covered in late autumn yellow blooms tinged with gold. The stems were a riot of thorns. 

A minute afterwards, the gardeners quietly walked towards a path that lead away from the sept and into a lush, ornamental garden of a nearby mansion. They entered the little side door and dropped the tools onto a table within the small tool-shed. 

Like all other aspects of smallfolk working life, entrances, exits and tool-sheds were tucked away from the delicate eyes of the lords and ladies. They had been lucky to find a pair of overtrousers in the shed that appeared to belong to an apprentice or adolescent child. Arya’s small size had many benefits, and today was no exception.

Jaqen’s disguise had needed more work, and they had been forced to wait until a gardener had passed by the shed before Jaqen had deftly blown a little poisoned dart into the man’s neck. They’d dragged him inside immediately, and set to work on divesting him of his trousers and apron.

As they tucked themselves into the little shed to change into new disguises, Arya checked the pulse of the snoring, mostly naked gardener they had hidden earlier. Jaqen’s sleeping dart had done its work well, but she estimated they had only ten minutes at most before he awoke. Five, if they were unlucky. 

‘Sansa never used to have such fucking long prayers,’ Arya cursed internally, but aloud she muttered, “Cutting it close,” as she helped Jaqen to return the gardener’s clothing to him. 

The gardener’s shoulders were as broad as Jaqen’s, but his belly was softly rounded, and his legs stocky and thick with hard, manual labour. Jaqen had looked fine in the gardener’s shirt and the upper portion of the trousers. Both thought all was well enough until they had looked down.

The gardener was shorter by around four inches, and Jaqen’s pristinely clean, pale white legs had stuck out from mid-calve to the top of his boots. He had looked ridiculous.

Arya had addressed the problem with typical malicious glee. She had darted out and returned with a predatory gleam in her eyes. Pouncing on him, she had rubbed a layer of mud around his legs that resulted in a layer of filth that was perhaps a tad bit thicker than necessary for a passing disguise.

“A man will have his revenge,” he had promised darkly as he stared down at her, and she had smiled sweetly up at him, her hands filthy around his shins.

He re-dressed himself quickly now. Over a clean, simple navy t-shirt, which she noted stretched distractingly across his wiry shoulders and the cut of his pectorals, he slipped on a knitted, faded grey sleeved pullover. Its pattern was invisible from a distance, but grew interesting as she came closer to inspect it, a style that grew like little stars of moss. She liked it greatly and wondered where it came from.

He glared at his dirty legs, then at her, and she smirked without apology. He rubbed away the worst of the clumps of dirt with her discarded trousers, then pulled out a pair of soft, worn looking charcoal grey jeans from his bag. 

“Is a lovely girl watching, or dressing?”

“Why not both?”

He sighed deeply. She giggled, and began to pull on her own clothes. 

He tucked his legs into his jeans, then into his usual black goatskin boots, which were perfectly moulded to his feet and contained a few hidden blades. Pulling on the bank of faces in his memory, he closed his eyes, turned from Arya, and willed himself into another dead man’s face. 

When he turned back to face her, he had transformed to a nondescript medium blonde man with closely cropped hair and gentle pale blue eyes. He reached back into his bag and pulled out a small case, from which he withdrew a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles. Slipping them onto his face, he hoisted his worn rucksack onto his back and looked at her coolly. 

“Hipster,” she sneered. 

He smiled with perfectly straight, bright white teeth. She nearly recoiled. He had already slipped into his new personality, and this one was far too friendly. 

‘Sadist,’ she thought to herself. ‘He just wants to catch me off guard.’

_We never stop playing._

She had changed into a pair of black jeans, a simple black shirt and a thickly knitted, silvery grey pullover. Her feet were in similar goatskin boots as Jaqen. Likewise, they each contained a hidden blade. She pulled the old woman from her face and placed her reverently back into her bag. She pulled another from the bag, and concentrated.

She had not stayed at the House of Black and White long enough to become a master. She had to use the cured faces of the dead, as she could not change her face at will like Jaqen.

She held her breath and braced herself. The magic took hold sluggishly at first, pulling at her face. She held perfectly still, but it was not painless. It began with the nerves of her scalp, which flickered flashes of pinpricks of pain that steadily increased to a crescendo of fiery agony as the locs of her hair shifted lengths unnaturally quickly, the colours changing from a dark brown to a tawny red. The pain continued down her forehead, as her skin changed colour, added texture, fine lines and freckles. Her eyes watered and burned as the dead woman’s irises began to rise over her own. A voice in the darkness of her mind began to surface, looking for dominance into life from the shadows of death. 

_Selis, Selis, Selis… valar morghulis…._

Her nose lengthened and shifted. The magic dissolved and solidified her nose into the shape of the dead woman’s bridge, tip, and nostrils. This hurt the most for some reason, but it was over in less than three heartbeats, and then she could breathe again. The magic continued over her cheekbones, rearranging her bones there, lengthening and spreading, to her teeth, her jaw, and finally her neck. 

She shivered and felt herself encased as a dagger into a sheath. Everything felt entirely normal, and yet wrong. 

She opened her eyes, and found herself staring into gentle, pale blue eyes.

The change was complete. She was Selis, a pretty young girl lately come to visit Oldtown from the crownlands. Her hair was now a cropped pixie cut, a hue as red as the morning dawn, and her face was as round and sweet as a peach. Her lips were tempting little rosebuds, glossy red and sparkling. Her eyes were wide and green, radiating a beckoning innocence. 

She looked like a young lady freshly turned out for her first city adventure, but the designer rips in her jeans and the smudged kohl around her dewy green eyes suggested she’d likely been taken out for a ride a few times. 

Or that she wanted others to think she had been, at any rate.

“Lovely girl,” he purred, a tiny smile on his half-lidded gaze.

Somewhere under, deep inside, the wolf growled, hating how he raked over her body with his new, pale eyes. The Lorathi sensed her discomfort and felt a fizz of pleasure. A gentle smile curved into his soul. He knew she hated compliments because she never trusted the truth of them, and thus didn’t know what to do with them. He wanted to pour his attention into the lesions of discontent roiling around inside of her, soothe them with his hands, his lips, his body, and prove to her somehow that in this alone, he always spoke the truth. Would that he could heal this hurt, and she would always know herself to be worthy of every compliment, every confirmation of her allure.

 _Lovely child_ , _sweet child_ , he had once called her. And he had meant it, for he had seen the quickfire of her temper, the will to survive, and desire to deliver her enemies to Him of Many Faces in the name of revenge. The purity of that desire had been lovely and sweet indeed.

Only occasionally had he called her _evil child_ , but it had been warranted, and well earned. He twitched, thinking of his muddy legs.

As she had grown into his apprentice, she had become a _lovely girl_ , a useful term as they quickly found that she had preferred that to _evil child_. And every master recognised the purpose of a well-earned term of praise. Slowly, over time, she had realised she liked being _his_ lovely girl. To his surprise, so did he.

Then, she felt he had simply meant the lovely way she killed, or the lovely way her evil mind turned to giving the gift. It was nothing more, and it was everything.

Then, he had called her thus merely because she was his apprentice, but was not possessiveness. It was simply a fact of training, but it was more of a personal relationship than the master had allowed himself since coming to the House of Black and White.

And so they danced with death, with knives, blades, and guns, the Lorathi master and _his lovely girl_. Arya Stark and her Jaqen H'ghar.

The one she called the Kindly Man, his former master and head of the Faceless Men, watched them both with wary eyes that were much older, wiser, and infinitely more wary. He saw the path of time that stretched before them. He saw the quicksilver smiles that flit across Jaqen's face and lit the fires of his former student's eyes, as he danced with the blades with his apprentice. He saw her cackle with glee at a well-timed pounce, when she should not. Saw him reward her with a fond pat on the head, when he should not. He quietly set watchers along their path, ensuring nothing untoward happened to Arya. It was not merely propriety, or a sense of honour. It wasn't that he didn't trust his former pupil.

_Sanctuary._

It was ancient right and much older than the House of Black and White, nearly as old as the gift itself. It was so old, it wasn’t written into law, unlike guest right, though some temples and kingdoms wrote elaborate treaties around the concept of it. 

Sanctuary in the House of Black and White meant Arya was protected by the Many-Faced God Himself. She had nowhere safe to go if the House turned her out, and thus it was the duty of every single adult to ensure the child was protected from harm. 

Hurt was not the same as harm. Training could, and would, hurt. Jaqen and the other masters could, and would, beat her with canes, whips, and take her eyes to give her the skills to save her life - if it was necessary for her training. They would let her experiment with poisons, and torture her with all manner of sensory deprivation - if it honed her deadly talents.

Harm, however, would never be tolerated.

And sexual predation of a young girl under the protection of sanctuary was harm, however it might be dressed up in her native Westeros, where girls, once flowered, were married and expected to produce squalling infants as quickly as possible, no matter their own readiness for the task.

And so the Kindly Man watched, and set other masters to watching her master very carefully. 

He had never shown particular interest in training an acolyte before. His presentation of the coin to Arya Stark had been completely unprecedented.

And so, the House watched.

Unbeknownst to Arya or Jaqen, it had led to a few amusing discussions between the Kindly Man with the one Arya had dubbed the Handsome Man, the last of which came only a few weeks before a sixteen-year-old Arya had absconded with a bag full of faces and an incredibly rare and valuable Valyrian Catspaw PSS. 

“Why must I watch them dance around each other,” the Handsome Man had bitterly complained. “It’s like watching a pair of blind, one-legged lizard-lions trying to fuck in the dark.”

Alarmed, the Kindly Man said, “Has your brother touched her—”

“No, of course not,” he replied, taking a swig of Uma’s good ale. “My point is, they’ll never get to the fucking point. Neither of them seem to know what they want, and they’ll die or kill each other before they get to the point. Which is fucking.”

The Kindly Man had breathed a small sigh of relief, considered the master’s words, and directed him to continue taking his turn at the rotation as normal. There would be no such mistakes with Arya Stark. So long as she lived in the sanctuary of the Many-Faced God, there could be no such mistakes.

'Lovely girl, indeed,' the head of the Faceless Men had thought to himself, as he considered how beautiful and deadly the young girl had grown in so short a time. His meditations had made it all too clear to him: she was blessed by Him of Many Faces, and walked in grace under His watchful eyes.

Across the sea, six years later, the young woman stared at Jaqen, hating how he smiled so effortlessly with affection at her now. There were no barriers between them now, no misunderstandings about the desire that pierced the air between them, but Arya was suddenly painfully aware of just how beautiful Selis was in comparison to her own, real face. She knew she was no beauty like Sansa, who took after their mother. She was Arya Horseface, Arya Underfoot, and nothing would ever change that, no matter how grown up she was, or whose dead face she wore. 

“Let’s go,” Selis said neutrally. Jaqen, in his blond visage, inclined his head, but quick as a snake, grabbed her hand.

“A girl has used three faces today,” he intoned seriously. “No more.”

She hissed and tried to pull her hand away, intending to head towards her bag, and seared him alive with a gaze so fierce, anyone else would surely have turned to ash. Who was he to question her? This was her mission. If he didn’t like it, he could go… wherever he went when he wasn’t with her.

His grip became iron, and he gripped the back of her neck with one merciless hand, the other bringing her face towards his. He pushed her back against the wall of the shed, where he pressed a hand against her mouth, and the other against her throat.

“The faces are no trifles,” he growled. “A girl will obey.”

She pushed against his chest, and found it was solid as stone. There wasn’t a sliver of movement as she tried to wriggle away, incensed at his presumptuousness. He pressed his body against her, cutting off her air and staring into her eyes. Under the dead man’s pale blue eyes, she saw Jaqen. Her lover, her Master.

“Who are you?” His voice was harsh, a reminder of who they were to each other.

He was pressed hard against her, and she felt his erection as a growing, heavy weight between them. It was neither the time nor the place for this, and surely the gardener was about to awaken, but she felt herself growing wet, a reaction to the grip on her neck and the heat in his eyes. They knew each other too well, knew how to draw each other's reactions too easily. She hated him in that moment for calling forth her submission to his dominance. It felt like a cheap shot.

She struggled. He uncovered the hand over her mouth to hear her reply.

“I am going to kill you,” she swore in her fury. 

_A lie._

“Not if the faces kill you first,” he snarled back.

_A truth._

Her green eyes widened. Point made, he pulled away, going to the door.

“Come.” 

His voice was smooth again, her Master now completely in control, as though nothing had happened. He had not yet taken command of the mission from her though, and this stoked the fire higher. Did he think she was an amateur? What the hell did he think she was doing those four years without him, on the run from Braavos?

She looked at him in confusion and disbelief at his change in behaviour, trying to decide if there was any lie in his truth about the faces, then grabbed her bag. They exited the shed and quickly made their way back to the entrance of the garden. They were clicking the door of the garden shut from the outside when they heard the groaning sound of a man who is newly awakened, and is not pleased about it.

It was the gardener, who was exiting the tool-shed with a few quiet oaths. 

‘No doubt he’s feeling hungover, can’t remember shite, and is hoping no one’s noticed he hasn’t been seen at work all day,’ she thought to herself, and felt a twinge of guilt on his behalf. She didn’t like getting innocents involved in her schemes. That’s what the faces were for... weren't they? She shivered.

They hadn’t anticipated needing extra workers disguises to watch and listen to Sansa and her companion. 

‘Valar dohaeris,’ she thought, dismissing the past. ‘Even if we don’t want to, everyone dies one day, so in a way, everything we do, every step we take, gets us one day closer to meeting the Many-Faced God.’

She looked at Jaqen again as they tucked themselves back into the shadows. There would be time to handle these questions later. It was time to head to this Elder Pattern, and find out what Sansa had gotten herself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the Elder Pattern universe, Sandor Clegane rides a Zorse Mostro. I've based it on the Ducati M900, aka, the Ducati Monster ('the bike that saved Ducati'), which debuted in 1993. It was initially just a concept design project by engineer Miguel Galluzzi, who reputedly said, "All a bike needs is a saddle, engine, two wheels, handlebars and a tank to fill with fuel." 
> 
> Sounds like Sandor to me. 
> 
> The reason Il Mostro looks so damned pretty is because Massimo Bordi, General Manager of Ducati at the time, wanted something that would have appealed to Marlon Brando in The Wild One (1953). The 'naked bike' of the modern era was born.
> 
> Specs of the 1993 Ducati M900 Monster:  
> Engine: 904cc, air-cooled desmo V-twin, 4v, SOHC  
> Power: 67bhp @ 7,000rpm  
> Torque: 60ftlb @ 6,000rpm  
> Weight: 185kg


	6. Patternmaster

Brienne of Tarth was having a difficult day. It was not because the customers were being difficult. In fact, difficult customers would have been a welcome distraction at this point.

The irregularity, as she had come to think of Lady Sansa Stark, was the difficulty.

Brienne had balanced the shop account books, tidied the shelves, and placed new orders for printer ink, pencils, paper, and other stationery items she needed to keep Elder Pattern running. She’d even dusted and adjusted the photographs of flash patterns on the walls.

Growling with mounting boredom, she had then chased down the orders that had been slightly delayed, though she could have waited a few more days. Upon hearing her orders would not be arriving for another fortnight, she had snarled down the phones. She had found herself relishing a particularly difficult conversation that had resulted in victory: the skin lubricants from Sunspear that both she and Sandor preferred were indeed going to arrive in three days, as had been special ordered. 

The shipment delays they had been experiencing over the past few months had become unacceptable, especially from the southern kingdoms. She didn’t care if the miombo oil, a rare essential ingredient from Essos, had been swallowed up by a sea monster on its trip over the Narrow Sea. This was the third shipment of hers from the Dornish company to be delayed. 

She had informed the oil merchant that her order would arrive within three days and her orders would never be ‘lost’ again, or she would switch her suppliers, and have the Patterns Guild blacklist their company due to the unprofessional treatment she was receiving. In one fell swoop, they would lose all the Pattern Guildmasters across Westeros, and their famed tattooist balm would never sell again. 

She had received immediate assurances that her order would arrive within three days. 

‘They have it on the shelves,’ she thought grimly. ‘Are they just holding back for some reason?’

She suspected they wanted to increase the price, given the end of the war and rumours of the coming of winter, but a deal was a deal. She had paid, and expected them to honour their agreement.

She turned to her suppliers in the Riverlands, and gave sibilant threats to those who gave vague reasons as to why her rubber gloves and single-use razors had been delayed. 

‘Why here as well?’ she thought. ‘The factories in the Riverlands have never done this to me before.’

She was just rearing back to sling threats when an old and trusted supplier in Cairns said her tattoo machine and cord covers would take another week when the manager said with bone tiredness, “Take it up with the king. Bran the Broken has too many broken roads from here to Oldtown. And winter’s come.”

“Winter?” said Brienne in disbelief, staring at the sunshine coming through the tiny front windows of her ancient studio. “It’s boiling hot outside!” 

It was an exaggeration, but she was fed up with excuses. Even if every other piece of equipment arrived, the tattooists could not work without sterilisation bags over the machines. 

“Might be, down in Oldtown,” Orthan replied, “but in Cairns, the winds bring the first sleet and snow, and the wolves circle and howl. Summer’s over, Brienne.”

She felt a sudden chill.

“Your courier, Alyson. Has she met with any harm on delivering her rounds?”

He paused, and then he said, “She wrecked her truck last week on the way to King’s Landing. Damned war really tore up the River Road. Her brother Horris is taking over for now. Look, you’ll get your order next week ---”

“Dammit Orthan, I don’t give a fuck about orders right now. Is Alyson all right?”

Orthan gave a surprised grunt. Brienne very rarely swore.

“Oh, um, well, she’s lost a leg. Broken collarbone. But aye, she’ll mend. Truck’s gone though. Family’s hard pressed to replace it.”

A rush of relief hit her, and she pulled back a bit. 

“Right. Well. Okay then.” She played with a pencil, and the air was quiet for a moment as she pulled herself back together. 

Alyson was a sweet kid, and had been Elder Pattern’s courier for many years as an apprentice under Blackwood Runners, a haulage company that operated out from the Riverlands. Alyson had been adamant for years that a pair of ravens were what she wanted as her first tattoo. Brienne had mostly brushed this off, but when Alyson paid the drawing deposit of ten silver moons, she had pencilled in the girl’s eighteenth birthday. Delivery after delivery, Alyson had smiled and reminded her that the ravens were coming, the symbols of her family’s ancient ties to House Blackwood. And on her eighteenth birthday, she had bounced into Elder Pattern, proudly presented the remaining twenty silver moons for her ravens, and ripped off her homespun shirt, presenting her tits, pretty as she pleased. 

The other customers in the shop had burst into laughter, and Brienne had needed to ask her very calmly to put her clothes back on, sign some forms, and come back in an hour, when her station was sterilised and ready for use.

She had needed to wipe and reset the transfers on Alyson a few times before the placements had been perfect, and the girl had giggled as Brienne had frowned. Alyson’s toplessness had not bothered her in the least, but she had been ticklish. Brienne had been a little embarrassed at first, as Alyson had been very young, only just eighteen, and a collar and chest piece was no gentle first pattern.

It was just the challenge of getting the angle perfect – getting those ravens to sit well against the slope of her client’s body. Wipe, place, stare. Glare in irritation. Wipe, place, stare. Step away, reconsider. Wipe, place, glare again. 

Alyson had been a perfect, sepia-toned canvas. If she had to replace those transfers again and again, it hadn’t mattered to either of them. The initial placement was everything. Alyson had laughed again when Brienne had wiped the ravens off, and Brienne had stiffened in irritation.

“One more time,” she had said. “And don’t move.”

Wipe, place….and suddenly, the birds had lined up perfectly. Their wings had balanced exquisitely against the edges of the girl’s collarbones. The line of their bodies were angled just so towards the points of her sweetly lush, brown breasts, which in turn, lead to the tips of their claws. 

It was like the ravens had been born with her. As though they were always there, waiting to land.

Brienne had nodded, satisfied at last. She had faced Alyson towards the mirror. Alyson had gasped with surprise, no more laughter, and understood in the transfer what was to come. She had reached up to touch herself, her face transformed. 

Then her hands came up, and when she placed them over her breasts, the birds had appeared to be gently landing on her knuckles.

Absolute perfection. 

In the mirror, Alyson's dark brown eyes had met Brienne’s sapphire blue ones, and a moment had crystallised between them. A dark electricity had passed. The brown eyes had held the knowledge that a great deal of pain was about to occur, and that Brienne was going to dish it out in spades. The birds would cost so much more than silver moons. 

And the girl had smiled. Enthusiastic nods, and a little squeak. A little jump onto her toes. The breasts had bounced, and Brienne had swallowed hard, just once. The girl had no idea just what was coming, but Brienne did.

And the thrill had set in, coursing hard through her veins. There had been heat in Brienne’s body, and her palms had been almost itching to take up the tools of her trade. The forbidden path of taking the man’s art of pattern making and putting it into the flesh had been her father’s art. It had called to her from her earliest days, when she had seen her father’s drawings and watched from the shadows as he worked his bloody art. And now she was allowed to do this, out in the open, with no need to hide who or what she was. 

Brienne had become the first female Pattern Guildmaster in Westeros since the foundation of the guild. Just thinking of it made her snort in anger. How many other talented women could the guild have had? She had earned the right to claim Elder Pattern as her own through sheer mastery of the art of pattern weaving. She had trained as an apprentice under her father’s tutelage in the remote island of Tarth, and over time, surpassed his skills. Her mastery had become so in demand that she had struck out onto the mainland – with his blessing – to seek the Pattern Guild’s acknowledgement. Her goal had been simple: to gain a studio of her own. 

It had not been easy. Her father had been open minded. The rest of the guild were not. No one would offer her a permanent chair in any pattern shop. She had been forced to make her way up and down the country in temporary positions, handing over large cuts of her wages just for the opportunity to continue working in a legal capacity.

She had gritted her teeth, kept her temper, and continued to hone her skills.

Over time, and with years of attending the pattern circuit up and down Westeros, the truth had been undeniable to all within the guild. Her mastery of black and white traditional patterns were among the most sought after across the country. People would travel great distances just for the chance to meet her and beg her for the opportunity to become her canvas. She could stare into their ideas, pierce the clouds of their hearts, and assess their bodies in the present and into the future. Her client list was booked up for over a year in advance.

“No,” was a term new clients would often hear, if she thought the idea was ludicrous or untenable. 

“That won’t work, but this would,” she would offer instead, giving a new idea, and sparring with their notions. The smart ones would listen closely, and reconsider. The stupid ones would leave in a huff of anger. Brienne would shrug and dismiss them utterly from her mind. They were not worth her time.

“If you should have children, your body will likely change in this way,” she would often explain to a young woman. “So, consider this,” she would continue, and offer her advice. And if they agreed, she would lay them down, and begin the work.

Men and women, young and old, fat and thin, curved and straight edges, they were hers to consider, to wrap her patterns and ideas. A dance of ink and pain, of steel and strength.

Every single time she created a piece, she put part of her heart into it. She learned from every encounter, every type of skin’s surface, even the reactions from her canvases. Every person was different. The relationship that built from the moment they walked through the door to the moment they sat in front of her was a dance. 

And when she had them under her steel, she performed the art she was born to do, and proved to the world that gender had nothing to do with any of it.

The death of the previous Guildmaster at Elder Pattern had left the studio vacant, and to her surprise, Ser Baelor Hightower himself had asked the Pattern Guild for her to fill the role. The Guild had responded in no uncertain terms that their autonomy was absolute, but when the votes came through, her election had been clear. The fifteen years of grinding on the road and throughout the realm had not been for naught. Her reputation had been written in the skin of Westeros, and while the vote was nowhere near unanimous, it had not shamed her father's name either. 

Until very recently, her work had been her life, and nothing else had come close to giving her that rush. Thus she possessed a near-perfect memory of her pieces. She remembered the ravens with painful, almost cruel clarity. Alyson’s light brown skin had taken the pattern beautifully, and she had sat very well, only occasionally letting out yelps of pain she could not keep behind her teeth. 

The girl had even tipped Brienne fifteen percent afterwards. Where she had found the money was a mystery, but Brienne had been humbled by it. Stubborn Riverland lass.

“Just get my order here as soon as you can,” Brienne said to Orthan, her voice professionally neutral again. “And give my regards to Alyson.”

“Sure, Brienne,” he replied, his voice much gentler now. “You take care now.” 

“You too.”

‘Fuck my orders. Bran the Broken needs to fix those roads.’ 

She hung up, hoping like hell that those collarbones she remembered would heal straight and true, and that Alyson would somehow walk again, even if the king never would. She realised she was vibrating with anger when she heard the door open.

She looked up and saw Sandor and Sansa walk through. She glanced at the clock. It was past eleven. 

“Staying late again?” she asked him. 

“Yeah. Few more sessions left. Any chicken?”

“In the kitchen.”

She eyed the tall red-headed noble woman, and wondered yet again what she and Sandor were creating. Neither had revealed anything, and that alone was unusual. 

Many clients were keen to show off their painfully acquired body art. Some couldn’t wait to chatter about it at the front desk, before or after the sessions. 

Very few said nothing at all. For those clients, Brienne could usually ask a few questions of the artist, and get a few replies. Not so with Sandor. He was as tight lipped as Sansa. 

Over the past week, the Lady of Winterfell had kept her cool blue eyes mostly to herself, and said very little. She had always inclined her head to Brienne, and offered a small smile as she walked behind Sandor. Their initial meeting had gone very poorly, but Sansa had seemed to have decided that the best way to make up for this was to say nothing at all and to keep her eyes to herself. 

'She locks herself away,' thought Brienne. 'Like I'm going to hurt her.' She frowned, not liking the thought at all.

Sandor made his way past the desk and opened the back door leading to the studio beyond.

“I’m leaving at five to meet up with Jaime. Lock up after,” Brienne called over her shoulder, as she looked at Sansa, who passed her by in a faint cloud of sept incense. That explained the absence at least. They must have been at the Starry Sept again. She had heard the rumours from Jaime that the Lady of Winterfell was seen most mornings at the sept with a huge, hulking figure, and she had laughed at him in their bed, unwilling to believe that she had dragged Sandor Clegane to a sept of all places, but it seemed there was some truth to it after all.

"I swear by the Seven, it's him," Jaime had said, as he dotted kisses across her broad shoulders, occasionally pausing to nip at her milky flesh. He made his way down her ribs and licked at a pattern of stars he found, enjoying her squirms. 

"It's more likely that they're just fucking in the morning, and that's why they're always late," she had replied. 

"Tattooists always fuck their clients, eh?" 

She had stopped smirking, stopped fondling his short, golden hair, and looked down to view the sleeve of a lion and his cubs decorating his right arm, where his wrist ended in a stump. Once upon a time, he had been whole. 

"You were the first," she had said quietly, and moved to pull away. He had grabbed her back gently with his left hand, and pulled her down, holding her forehead against his.

"I know," he said. "That was careless of me. Forgive me."

And after a moment, she had.

Sandor didn’t reply, but she knew he had heard her. Sucking her teeth, she began to go over the quarterly tax report that she had been avoiding. Sansa had overpaid enough to ensure that the studio would remain completely empty while Sandor worked on her. Not only did the shop make a tidy profit, but Brienne got all the outstanding paperwork she had been avoiding completely finished.

Brienne didn’t know if she should hate her for that, or should feel grateful. 

As she glanced through the new tax increases imposed by her brother, Bran the Broken, no doubt another consequence of the war and incoming winter, she felt a fair helping of both. 

She wished for another distraction, anything at all, to save her from the godsdamned tax report, when the door opened again, and two people she had never before seen walked in.

The man was tall, with medium blonde hair and silver rimmed glasses. He wore a grey pullover and charcoal jeans over plain black boots. He had a kind look to his eyes, as he examined the walls and the art that hung on them. 

'Hipster,' she thought instantly. 

The young woman had light red hair, the colour of a strawberry dawn, and also wore grey and black. She looked much more energetic, bouncing on her feet and looking like she had never been to a pattern studio before.

'New to the city,' she diagnosed.

"Welcome to Elder Pattern," Brienne said. "Can I help you?"

The two turned as one to Brienne, and she felt a slight tinge of unease at their uncanny fluidity that swept away as they both smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brienne demanded an entire chapter. I love her, so I hope you don't mind. Jaime snuck in. Hope you don't mind him either.


	7. Qohorik Wood

The girl called Selis smiled brightly at the person behind the black stone desk in the small front of the ancient shop. She took in the tasteful lighting that discreetly highlighted the artwork decorating the walls, and the minimal shelving that contained a few small pieces of exquisitely carved Qohorik wood. Only Faceless training painstakingly drilled into her at the House of Black and White kept her from widening her eyes in surprise. It was rare to see such precious objects in Westeros. She had seen only a coveted few offered for sale by the most exclusive merchants of Braavos. The shop was clearly doing very well, and must have some kind of security to have such wealth on display.

‘Or perhaps they don’t know what they have,’ she thought, as she considered the age of the building and the architecture surrounding her. The walls were solid stone, but whitewashed and clean. The windows were tiny, in keeping with the location in one of the oldest areas of Oldtown. The fine wooden flooring gleaming with polish beneath her felt like it had been trod on a thousand times, and the air was almost cool. She would bet coin that a tributary of the Honeywine flowed somewhere not too far below the shop, acting as an ancient drain.

“So this is Elder Pattern!” she said to the tall, muscled person with pale yellow hair behind the counter, whose gender she could not easily identify. Arya, deep under Selis, cared nothing at all about that. Gender made no difference to a Faceless Man, who could slip into all ages, all genders, all shapes, and all colours at will. It was all the same to Him of Many Faces. 

Selis however was busy staring at the pictures, bouncing around different images, and placing her fingers along the ones she liked, smiling at her companion. She settled on one with a grin, a design of a heart encased in flames, and said, “Ooooh! How much is that one?”

Internally, Brienne sighed, but outwardly she simply moved her head with a slight inclination. Interactions like these with tourists entering Oldtown’s most famous pattern studio were so typical she could practically repeat them like lines from a mummer’s play, but it was better than doing the quarterly taxes.

‘Marginally,’ she thought, as she considered the girl. 

“Flash designs are priced by the artist. That one is by Vhala, a Guildmaster from Volantis. He will be available in about five days or so.”

“It’s so pretty!” Selis cooed like a bird, smearing her fingers against the glass again. Brienne winced. Why did they always want to touch the glass? Oh well, more cleaning meant less time for the quarterly taxes, she supposed. She also doubted that the girl would have thought that design pretty enough to be patterned in the traditional Volantene way – on the girl’s cheek, symbolising her status as a slave in the service of R’hllor – but she merely politely nodded.

Selis wandered over to another framed picture, her curvy hips swaying in her soft black leggings and her boots strangely silent on the flooring. She pointed to another frame, and said, “What’s this?” It was a black and white image of a man whose face was deliberately left in shadows, while his arms showcased a brutal pattern of swirling scarification that mimicked fire. It was terrifying to behold.

“That’s branding,” Brienne said quietly. 

“Branding?” the girl said, looking back at Brienne in surprise. “What, like livestock?” 

“Yes. We offer branding and… other forms of scarification,” said Brienne. 

“Who?” Selis’ voice had become cold, and Brienne’s brows narrowed at the judgemental tone. “I mean, who would want to do this?”

“More than you might think,” Brienne said evenly, holding her gaze for a moment, before continuing. “What are you here for, Miss….?” 

Selis didn’t bother to hide her shock. Would the man who had her sister do this to her? It looked sickening to her. Her companion behind her simply smiled, his piercing blue eyes gentle as he took in the work. 

“What’s your name, Miss?” said Brienne, her voice firm.

A light chuckle came from the man, who said, “Selis, darling. Do close your mouth, or the flies will get in.”

Selis snapped her teeth shut and glared balefully at him. She turned back and said, “Sorry. I was just… well.” She pulled herself together and then offered a small country curtsy, which was as wobbly as a newborn colt. “Selis Massby. I’m here for a few days, and heard about Elder Pattern.”

Her companion tsked and steadied her shoulder with a large hand, his fingers long and elegantly tapered. 

“Myles Rosensby,” he said, with an elegant sketch of his other hand, and a slight bow. “And you must be Brienne Tarth, first Lady Pattern Guildmaster of Westeros. We are honoured to be in your establishment.”

Selis shot him a startled look, but then she looked over at Brienne, who stood stunned.

“I….thank you,” said Brienne. “You know of my work?”

Myles rose gracefully, and simply offered a gentle nod, saying nothing further. Brienne flushed bright red to the tips of her pale blonde hair, and Selis took a moment to escape, thinking furiously about her sister and Clegane.

Nothing was making sense. Was her sister just here to get inked? Or, she thought with a sickening lump in her throat, to be branded?

She stood in front of another image, this one of a woman’s bare back, her hair drawn up in an elaborate, traditional braided style. She was kneeling on a cushion, her toes peeking out from her large, rounded bottom. A very big woman, the lush curves of her body were lovingly enriched by the tattoos that wrapped her skin. Her face was turned so that only one eye and the hint of an aristocratic nose could be seen over the thorny vines of roses and sweet forget-me-nots decorating her shoulders. A crane was flying through the main portion of her back. The effect was unmistakeably erotic. 

“Wow,” Selis breathed, having never before seen a full body suit. 

Brienne enjoyed the reaction, as it was always a pleasure to see a prospective customer take in the true value of the art form at its peak.

“I want to speak with Sandor Clegane.”

“I can schedule you an appointment for next week.”

Selis pouted. Her shiny red lips irritated Brienne instantly. “Why not now?”

Brienne tried not to bristle but the entitlement was always the same. Young folks just never seemed to respect the art. “He’s with someone just now.”

Selis said, “I can wait.”

Brienne smiled politely, and shook her head. “I’m afraid not. We’ll be closing shortly.”

Selis said, as polite as she could, “How much would it cost for a short consultation, right now?”

Brienne narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think you’ve heard anyone tell you no for a while, Miss Massby, but here at Elder Pattern, my word is law. The answer is no.”

"Are there any other artists available?"

"Unfortunately, no. Not today. It's just Sandor and myself, which is not normally the case, but as I said, if you can come back in about five days, I can fit you in then."

Selis sighed, and then turned to face the woman. She let herself look at Brienne fully for the first time, to let herself really look into the woman’s alarmingly blue eyes, and take a full measure of her.

Stubborn. Strong-willed. A dark blue sapphire meeting a rough-cut diamond then, thought Arya. She remembered the Waif. 'Even the hardest crystal will shatter with the right blow, or burn in a hot flame. Do this right, or not at all.'

“All right. I really had hoped we weren’t going to have to do it like this,” Arya said through Selis. She let the Northern wolf girl out, just a little. “But you see, this is really important to me. You’re going to let me see him, right now, or we’re going to have a problem....right....now....” She let her voice trail as she stared coldly at her, the Northern ice forming in her veins.

The Patternmaster flinched first.

“Like hell,” said Brienne, getting ready to toss the girl out. She stepped forward, and Selis stepped forward at the precise same moment, her face coming swiftly forward, towards Brienne. The second of sheer panic on the older woman's face was the moment Selis knew she had her. She sealed the deal by grabbing both of Brienne’s forearms, preventing any further movement.

“Do you know who Sandor Clegane is?” Selis asked quietly, a lethal quality in her voice so low that the security camera in the corner would be unable able to pick it up. She could have counted the freckles on Brienne’s nose if she had wanted. “He’s a killer. You can see it in his eyes. He’s killed before, lots of times. And he _liked_ it. Do you think that joy ever really goes away?” A tiny smirk graced the slash of her glossy red lips.

“Get out-” Brienne said as tried to move her arms, then switched to stomping down with her boot to force the girl to release her, but suddenly the girl was not there.

Selis had ducked around her, wrenching one of Brienne's arms behind her back in a move so fast that Brienne hardly had time for a surprised yelp. She pulled up hard on it, and Brienne went to her knees. The girl used her strength far too well, and she was now by Brienne's left ear, continuing to speak to her in that maddeningly quiet tone.

“You know he’s a killer. You’ve seen the dead look in his eye when he loses his temper. The flash of anger, followed by a flat, empty expression? The one that looks like this.” 

Quick as a snake, Selis snatched Brienne’s chin and turned her eyes on her. Brienne sucked in a breath at the girl's lidded gaze, for it had been transformed. No longer sparkling emeralds that shimmered like leaves in the sun, her dull green eyes, smeared with kohl, bored into her like filmy shades of infection, full of warnings about impending death. Those eyes made her think of decaying limbs, the shrouds of the dead, and the promise of the abyss. Nothing and no one could stop those eyes.

“And the light dawns.” She held her close for a few more heartbeats. “Yeah, there it is,” she continued mercilessly. “You saw death in his cold, grey eyes, and you hired him anyway. Kept him on. Fed him _chicken_.” She released the hold.

Brienne wrenched herself away, and dragging a breath into herself, looked at the girl in horror. She climbed up from her knees, but Selis stood between her and the door; there was no escape. Brienne whirled around, looking to grab for the phone to call for help, but found Myles leaning beside it on the desk, with the same infuriating little smile on his face, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His index finger came up and he twitched it in the air, the universal signal for a negative. 

“What do you want,” Brienne breathed. “Money?”

“Don’t be stupid. Where are your keys?” said Selis.

“Desk drawer – the small one on the left side.”

Selis considered, and then shook her head. “You lie. Don’t do it again, or this will get very unpleasant for you.”

Brienne's eyes widened in shock. How did she know that was the trick drawer that, when pulled, would issue a silent alert to the security company?

“The keys, Patternmaster? I won’t ask nicely again.” The scent of the wolf girl was back in the room, and the green of her eyes were becoming flinty again. Brienne shivered and said, “In my front pocket. Right side. They never leave me.”

Selis studied her, and then said, “Partial truth. They leave you sometimes, but not while you are here.”

Brienne swallowed. 

“You have a choice,” said Selis. “You must have known this day would come. You can stay here and see what happens next, or you can leave and find out later. Either way, you’re locking up now, and we’re going to speak with Clegane.”

Brienne stared at the two strangers in her studio, knowing they were no tourists, no customers of any kind. She stared at the slight bags on their backs, and then hardened her gaze. Her teeth ground in her mouth, and a fire lit her belly. It was an old rage. 

Until she had become the owner and present keeper of Elder Pattern, Brienne had been told what to do by people who were less than talented skin scratchers who were given endless opportunities simply because they had been born with a cock and balls. As a child and throughout her adult life, girls and women had looked down on her for not being feminine enough, for not conforming to the standards of female beauty enough. And now this little upstart country girl from the crownlands was holding her studio hostage, and giving her shit for letting one of the finest black and white artists in the world have a home, just because he had a bloody past?

Who in Westeros didn’t have a bloody past? The Seven Kingdoms, now Six, constantly fought amongst itself. The rumours said that some of the Free Cities of Essos were considering launching an attack, given the weakened state of the Six Kingdoms following the wars that lead up to the crowning of King Bran the Broken. So what if Clegane and his brother were rumoured to have been mercenaries in their youths? Vhala had earned his skills in Volantis by tattooing slaves. Perhaps the Cleganes had learned theirs the same way prison tattoos were designed and executed: the hard and nasty way.

She remembered the day the two men, who radiated hate towards themselves and each other, had walked into Elder Pattern, seeking work. 

“We won’t work on the same days,” said Sandor. Gregor said nothing at all. “Can’t stand this dumb motherfucker, and he hates me. But our work is solid.”

They had shown their portfolios and Guildmaster certificates, and Brienne had nodded. 

“Got a problem working for a woman?” she said to Gregor, staring into his black eyes.

He sneered at her, but said, “You pay on time?”

“You keep your station sterile? Especially all that fancy branding equipment?” 

He held her gaze, and then nodded once, slowly. 

“Then yes, I pay you exactly on time, plus benefits, and paid leave. Can even get you dental, if you want it.”

He’d smiled, and by the Seven, that had been an ugly sight. The ruin of a mouth of a veteran merc. He was a killer and a sadist, she had no doubt. But his portfolio had shown some of the most beautiful and intricate lacework branding she had ever seen on men and women of varying shapes and sizes. He knew his anatomy well, and had shaped the patterns accordingly. He had earned his license as a Pattern Guildmaster, and that was something that was never freely handed out. 

As she had looked over Sandor’s exquisite black and white tattoo work, she had felt the same way, and so the Clegane boys had found a home – so long as they didn’t work the same shifts. That had been over ten years ago. She glared at Myles and Selis.

“I don’t know who in the seven hells you two are, but let’s get one thing straight: Elder Pattern is _my_ House,” she said. “I don’t know what your damned problem is with Sandor, but he’s one of mine. So if you want it done so fucking badly, you can fucking lock up.”

Then she reached into her pocket, and threw the keys on the floor at Selis’ feet. She stalked past Myles, her hands shaking with fear and rage. She went straight past the dark stone desk, opened the door into the studio, and stalked into the rooms beyond. 

Myles watched her go, and then looked darkly at Selis, saying, “A lovely girl makes many mistakes.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Selis snarled in reply as she snatched the keys from the floor and locked the door. She flicked the light switches off, and pulled the small curtains down to cover the tiny windows of the ancient shop.

Myles shook his head, and then said, “A man looks forward to seeing what a lovely girl thinks she is doing. Come, your hound awaits.”

Selis gave him an odd look, not understanding him at all, and then pushed the door to the inner studio open, looking for her sister in the light beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter, I think. (I said this last time though....)


	8. Soldier Pine

_Selis stalks into the short hallway and draws her Catspaw in one hand. She holds her other one up to Myles silently. She has not planned this out, but her adrenaline spiked when she saw the branding in the photo. She thinks she knows why Ramsay has sent Sansa here, and the fear and rage has pushed her towards a near berserker frenzy. Ramsay was a possessive bastard, and if Sansa has returned to him, what better way to mark your chattel than to put your brand on it?_

_Her hand trembles at the thought, and she reminds herself that the gun has no safety. She keeps her finger alongside, and pulls open her shirt along the false edge. Adjusts her bandolier of knives over a tactical bulletproof vest. Sandor is a big son of a bitch, but that doesn’t matter. Anyone can be killed._

_She holds her fist again, signals for three, two, one, and together they head through the final doorway._

“What the fuck, Brie,” she heard Sandor saying. He was standing in front of Sansa, blocking the view, and was in a protective stance. “Are you fucking deaf? The lady made a deal, and you’re breaking it. Get the fuck out.”

“I can’t,” said Brienne, who stood gritting her teeth, her hands fisted at her sides. 

“What the fuck do you mean you can’t?”

“She means me,” said Selis. “Well, us.” She stepped in with her Catspaw trained on his head, trusting Myles to watch her back, and to keep Brienne from becoming further involved.

“Who the fuck are you?” he snarled. 

“My name isn’t important,” she said. “Step away from Lady Stark, and tell me everything you know about Ramsay Bolton. And maybe, just maybe, I won’t take very long when I kill you.”

Sansa had begun to sit up, and her clear blue eyes were round with shock. Selis looked over Sandor’s shoulders, saw his black gloves, covered in red, and snarled. 

“Get the fuck away from her, _now_ ,” she hissed. 

“What’s going on,” Sansa said quietly. “Who are you, and why do you think this has anything to do with Ramsay Bolton?” She was moving with stiffness, and was carefully holding her arms in front of her chest. Selis didn’t dare take her eyes off of Sandor, but noticed that he moved to place himself between her and Sansa.

 _Why_ , Arya thought furiously, buried under the mask. _Why would he do that?_

Probably wouldn’t get paid if something went wrong. But the idea didn’t ring true, and she felt it in her bones. Ignoring it, she held the gun trained on his head.

“Step away from her now, or I will kill you,” she said, death in her gaze. 

“No!” Sansa shouted. Shaking, terrified, she jumped off the black vinyl table on which she had sat up, partially hidden behind Sandor. She ran in front of him, placing herself in the line of fire, heedless of her nakedness. The scars on her belly, chest, and arms were pink with healing, and her hands were outstretched, pleading. 

“Sansa!” Selis cried, and instantly moved her gun out of the line of fire. Distantly, she heard Brienne shouting, and heard a scuffle of movement. Items clattered to the floor. 

In the split second it had all happened, Sandor had pulled Sansa into his arms, wrenching her away, and wrapping her in his embrace, had turned his back to Selis, presenting himself as a huge, unprotected target. He had tucked himself down, bringing her with him, and the black vinyl table had jumped away as his movement had sent it skittering.

Unnatural silence. She breathed hard, starring at the tableau. After a moment, she heard soft weeping, little cries of no. Was that her sister? And a quiet, rumbling voice.

“Little bird, I’ve got you… you’re safe. It’s all right… you’re safe. Won’t let anything bad happen to you. Little bird, shh…shh…” 

Selis breathed hard, looked over her shoulder, and saw Brienne struggling, pinned down neatly in Myles’s arms. He looked impassively back at her, emotionless, waiting for her next move.

She turned back around, and staring down at Sandor's broad back, was full of confusion. She said, “Get up. Both of you. Just… get up.”

Sandor ignored her for a moment, and unbeknownst to Selis, he looked down to thumb away the errant tears that spilled down Sansa’s cheeks. He ignored everything for a moment, adjusting her hair behind her ears. They looked at each other, drawing strength from each other and creating a platform of unity. They would get through this together, or not at all. As one, eerily, they looked back at Selis, and Sandor glared through greasy hair alongside the ruin of his face. A more hate-filled stare would never be found elsewhere in Westeros, she thought idly. Not even on Night King’s face, and she had really thought she’d never see a more concentrated form of hatred again. Sansa just looked cold and very, very angry.

“What do you want?” Sandor growled as he stood himself up, still holding her sister tucked away, still keeping his back turned protectively as a shield.

“Are you… working for Ramsay Bolton,” she asked as politely as she could. Perhaps she had made a mistake. Killer he may be, but she had never known Ramsay to hire a killer with this much devotion to a paycheck.

“Who in the godsdamned fucking hell is Ramsay Bolton?” he snarled.

“My ex,” said Sansa, whose voice rang clear as a bell. She had pulled herself together very quickly, and despite Sandor’s protests, had leaned over to address the girl who had attacked them. He kept an arm around her, and she murmured a request. He sighed, and reached over to a chair nearby for her silky pale blue blouse. She turned her back for modesty, and Selis gasped.

A female direwolf leapt from her right shoulder to her left hip. She had no idea how she knew it was female; it just was. The enormous wolf emblazoned her sister's back, but it was still dainty somehow. Nevertheless, it retained its fearsomeness; it was wild and free, the untameable predator, the huntress of the forest, the mistress and protector of her kin. Its teeth and claws appeared to rip across the landscape of her back, lips curled back in an unmistakable warning to all who dared to approach Lady Stark. Composed in a hundred shades of black, grey, and the subtlest of light browns, the direwolf was a masterpiece reminiscent of their family's ancient coat of arms, and its yellow eyes glowed with an almost unnatural lethality against the pure white snow of her sister's skin. In the shadows that surrounded the wolf, she could see the faintest outlines of weirwood trees, and her heart suddenly ached for the godswood of Winterfell, filled with longing and love for her little brother, the king, whose transformation into the Three-Eyed Raven had meant they had lost him somehow too. Her heart constricted for her parents, her lost brothers, for Jon, lost now forever to the Night's Watch, doubtlessly wandering the icy tundra beyond the Wall. Sandor had been adding red ink for heart tree's leaves when she had interrupted them. That had been most of the colour on his gloves – that, and undoubtedly some of her sister’s blood. Tattooing was not a bloodless sport.

Nevertheless, Sandor had taken the ugliness of the scars of a madman and elevated it into the living testament of Sansa’s triumph over her past. Into this, he had patterned a tribute to their family’s ancient legacy, whilst placing into her sister's skin a painful acknowledgement of everything they had lost, of what they had so freshly suffered. He had created a private coat of arms for the present Lady of Winterfell, and illuminated her hopes for the future.

Her sister would never, ever be alone again.

It was only a glimpse, and the blouse had covered up the incredible vision, but Selis' eyes stung with the glory of it. _Pack_ , she thought, her heart full of pain.

“I am not here with Dr Bolton,” Sansa said, turning back to Selis. Her ice blue eyes sparked with outrage and disgust. “I want nothing to do with him, not that it’s any of your concern. Who are you, in any case? What do you want with me?”

It was Selis’ turn to squirm under that gaze. She had never liked being interrogated by her older sister, and this new-found confidence from her was wholly unexpected. It had been two years since the battle of Winterfell, and Arya had been wandering the country since their little brother, Bran, had been made king. She had sent messages occasionally, had pulled Sansa out of Ramsay's clutches a few times, but on the whole had found Winterfell and the North to be too confining. Too many memories. 

Then Sansa had stopped replying, and she'd had to know what was going on. Her rooms in Winterfell had held no clues, contained no hint of where she had gone. And so Arya had gone hunting.

Sansa’s eyes narrowed, and she walked forward. Sandor’s arm shot out, but Sansa pushed it away, looking thoughtful, first at the girl, then at the tall blond man holding Brienne.

“A younger woman and an older man,” Sansa mused aloud. “Travelling alone, with guns and knives…” she said, pointing with a slightly trembling hand at the deadly bandolier decorating Selis' chest. The taller redhead continued forward, and Selis felt her forehead begin to sweat. “Not the first younger woman and older man I’ve seen together today. There was a pair at the sept, too... and the woman had an interest in helping me.”

Damn her. When had she become so perceptive? Sansa stood in front of the shorter girl, and leaning forward, very close to Selis, she stared into pale green eyes, ringed with messy black kohl, searching them for a sign, a clue. Finally, she breathed in, closed her eyes, then opening them again, pierced her gaze.

“Arya?” she whispered. Her voice was filled with equal measures of disbelief and hope.

“……..fuck,” said Selis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters. I think. (Damned assassins...)


	9. Blood of Winterfell

The young women stared at each other, and the moment was heavy with fear and misunderstanding.

“I…” said Sansa, at the same time as Selis broke into a very typical Arya giggle, the inappropriate kind she always did when she was caught doing something very naughty, like stealing her sister’s favourite doll, or hiding her sister’s latest romance novel, like the one with a cover featuring a knight with flowing blond hair and rippling abs who looked suspiciously like the famous footballer, Jaime Lannister, under Jon’s pillow. 

Nothing could piss the young woman off like her little sister.

Sansa glared, and poking her finger into the other's face, said, “I don’t know how it’s you, but I know that laugh. Show yourself!”

The laugh vanished, and the face became impassive as stone. Emotion disappeared, slipping away in an instant like water sluiced through a drain. The effect was as chilling as it was instantaneous. Green eyes, red hair, peachy fair skin, and glossy red, slightly full lips looked back at her. The young woman standing before her was nothing at all like her long-faced, pale skinned Stark sister, with her clear grey eyes and dark brown hair. Nothing at all like her little sister who eschewed makeup and femininity in all ways. 

And yet she knew that laugh, that little shrug of those shoulders.

It was Arya, somewhere under this…mask.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Selis, trying to regroup.

Sansa was having none of it. She grabbed at the other girl’s hair, and _pulled_.

The sisters hadn’t had an old-fashioned catfight in years, but in the Stark family, such tussles had been legendary. Bran would watch with wide eyes, his mouth usually dropped open in surprise, but baby Rickon would gurgle and grin, making growling and screeching sounds along with the shrieking girls. Jon and Robb were no better, laughing and cheering from the side lines, taking bets with each other on which girl would win. It was usually fairly evenly matched. Arya had a mean right hook if given a chance to use it, and would kick like a mule if Sansa’s shins were in reach, but if Sansa managed to get her hands in her sister’s hair, it was usually game over. Her superior height gave her leverage, and what she lacked in martial training she made up with sheer viciousness. The girls would howl and scratch, and Arya would even get in a few good bites before their parents would come marching in, breaking it up, and admonishing them all. 

“No!” screamed Selis, but Sansa was relentless. She had played this game far too many times with her sister, and she was _pissed_. Arya had gone too far. Showing up in some sort of disguise and holding a shop owner hostage? Pulling a gun on Sandor? She pulled at her sister’s hair hard, slapping her face, and grunted as she felt a vicious punch to her belly. She moved around, shuffling her hand a bit, getting a better grip. Strong as a wolf, she pulled hard, enjoying the shrieks of pain from her prey. She reached down, grabbing a bit more, and to her shock, she felt something _give_ …and _give_ …and then pull away entirely.

She jumped away in horror, and found she was holding a mask. A human face. She shrieked in revulsion and dropped it on the floor, then stared at her sister. 

Arya stood before her now, her true face revealed, panting.

“Ow,” she said, rubbing at her temples. “ _Bitch_.”

She continued to stare at her in shock, then looked at the man who stood near the doorway. He was still holding onto Brienne, but it was clear that his grip was lighter now. The Patternmaster was as shocked as Sansa, her dark blue eyes so wide that she could see the white all around the sapphire irises. 

“What the fuck,” Brienne breathed.

“Faceless,” growled Sandor, who suddenly drew himself up to his full height, and cried a warning to Sansa. “Get away from her!” he said. “She’s not who you think she is.”

“No, this is my sister, Arya,” she said to him, and he shook his head. “She is no one,” he said, and to her continued horror, he pulled out a gun, and pointed it at Arya.

Smoothly, Myles raised his PSS, and aiming it at Sandor said, “Valar morghulis, Hound.” Brienne took the opportunity to pull away and run to the side of the room, where she stared in confused terror as two new guns went into play.

Arya moved to shield her sister, but Sansa moved away, running to protect Sandor, and chaos erupted in the room again.

“Jaqen, stop!” shouted Arya, undisguised fear in her eyes.

“What the fuck is going on!” screamed Brienne, panic on her face.

“Don’t shoot!” cried Sansa, who stood in front of Sandor once again.

Only silence came from the men, who stared across the room at each other.

“You a Faceless Man?” said the Hound. His voice was like gravel, and held no hint of regret or dismay. Only recognition, one killer to another.

“This man has that honour,” replied Myles. “And you are the Hound, a name that has been spoken.”

Arya stared at him in shock, and back at her sister. Sansa said, “What does that mean?”

“It means he’s here to kill me,” said Sandor, his grey eyes cold and unwavering as he turned to aim his black pistol at Jaqen. 

Arya looked at Jaqen, uncomprehending, anger radiating from her. For how long had he been planning this? _Rule your face_ , she thought severely. Deal with the situation now, kick his ass later.

Sansa stared at Sandor, then at the blond man, then at her sister. “You came here to murder my tattooist?” The idea was so absurd, she laughed for a second, but Arya’s face was like stone. She looked at the blond man again, the one Arya had called Jaqen, and saw he was deadly serious; his gun had not wavered. He didn't look at all like the man with red and white hair that she remembered. She shivered, thinking of Nan's tales of the Faceless Men, of the faces of the dead they would cut off and use as masks in their worship of the god of death. Surely not. She couldn't believe it. Then she looked over her shoulder at Sandor. His jaw was set. Even if she didn't believe, he did. 

Brienne stood to the side, breathing hard, frozen in place. If she moved towards Jaqen, Sandor would die. She had heard of the Faceless Men; they were a myth – a legend! They couldn’t exist. They were just some tale that mothers told to frighten naughty children into going to bed on time at night. ‘Get into your pajamas right now mister, or the Faceless Men will say your name, and you’ll be sorry!’ 

“This is insane,” Brienne said. “Who sends a Faceless Man after a pattern Guildmaster?”

“Don’t move,” said Arya, and Brienne bristled. Arya drew her weapon and aimed it at the Patternmaster to hold her back. Sansa shouted at her sister, but Arya kept her eyes on the shop owner.

It was now officially a standoff. 

Jaqen sighed deeply, and Arya felt the disapproval radiating from him. Arya smirked at Brienne and said with a jerk of her head towards Sandor, “I told you he was a killer.”

Ever the diplomat, Sansa groaned in her head.

Brienne’s lip curled in derision. “Clearly, so are you! So is practically everyone in Westeros who survived the war!"

Arya glanced over her shoulder at the Hound, checking him carefully again. Yup, still a total killer. “Not like him.” She considered more carefully, thinking of Jaqen, and looking into her heart. She murmured, “Not like us.”

Sansa said, “I don’t care what he was before. He’s not a killer now.”

Arya snorted. “Still so naïve. Still believing in fairy tales of knights and princesses. You haven’t changed at all.”

Sansa snapped, “And you have? Running away from Winterfell, from your family? Leaving with a killer, doing the gods only know what?” She stalked forward, keeping herself in the line of fire between Sandor and Jaqen, but her eyes blazed in righteous indignation.

“You slaughtered an entire House in the war, and the North rejoiced. You took down Night King, and the kingdom was ready to make you a queen. And what did you do? You disappeared! Ran away, like you always do when things piss you off.”

“I never abandoned you!” shouted Arya, turning her gaze for just a moment. “You jumped into bed with every abusive fucker you could find, let them beat on you and cut you up, for shit's sake! I begged you not to go back to him, but you did! And just when I thought you were finally safe, you disappeared!”

Sansa’s voice pitched low, chuckling with derision. “Oh, you don’t want to go there, sweet sister. You really don’t. Do you think I don’t know what the scars on your bedposts are about? I found your toy bag, Arya. I know exactly how nipple clamps and restraints are used, and I’ll bet every last copper in the North that Jaqen isn’t the one being whipped and caned. I'll bet you've done more than a few nights of edge play with that fancy bandolier.”

Arya’s face turned bright red, and said, “That’s so not the same! You went back to Ramsay after he put you in the hospital – I don’t know how many times!”

Sansa nearly screamed in fury, and her fingers curled into claws, itching to pull out more of her sister’s hair. Nothing could draw ire like family. 

“Yes, I did! I was a fool! But you never asked why, Arya! You never wanted to know why I went back. You didn’t know what hold Ramsay had on me, or the depths of my despair. You just told me to leave, and never tried to understand why I stayed. And by the gods, I have paid for those mistakes, in scars, in nightmares and in blood! But I don’t owe you _my_ blood, Arya! And neither does Sandor!”

The words hung in the air, suspended in time, and Arya took a few deep, unsteady breaths. Then she said quietly, “I don’t want your blood. Or Sandor’s… at least, not now that I know he’s not Ramsay’s dog. I don’t know who’s paid for his name, but it wasn’t me. I just wanted to know where you were, and if you were all right. You weren’t answering your phone or your emails. I couldn’t find you! I was sure you had gone back to that monster!”

Sansa sighed.

“Arya, you don't know me. And do you know how many times I’ve tried to phone you, left messages, and received nothing back? How many times I’ve emailed you, and had to wait for days upon weeks, not knowing where you were, if you were even alive? And all you would give me is a few words. ‘Still alive, nice weather in Dorne, see you soon.’ Arya, the silence between us… you put it there. Thousands of paces, hundreds of miles… you made this distance, fashioned it every step of the way.”

She continued, ruthless, every inch the Lady of Winterfell. "And if I choose to turn off my phone or not answer my email for a much deserved break, that is my prerogative. Just as it has been yours, for all these years."

Arya flinched, looking back into Brienne’s face, knowing it was all true. She had nothing to say, and so she said nothing. 

Jaqen clicked his teeth, and said, “A lovely girl’s sister must move away.”

“No,” said Sansa, moving back to stand closer to Sandor. She held her arms out in front of him, making herself a wider target.

“Move, little bird,” said Sandor, who tried to forcibly move her to the side. He grabbed her arm, and when he tried to push her aside, she hissed in pain, the recent tattooing work on her back causing her pain. He grunted, not wanting to cause her discomfort, but could not take his eyes off of the Faceless Man across the room. He prepared to shove her harder, but Sansa squirmed in his grasp, planting her feet as best as she could in the floor. 

Violence was escalating in the room, and Brienne was shouting again. 

“Stop,” said Arya, and her voice was a command. “Everyone, just shut the fuck up for a moment! Jaqen! The name on the contract. Was it for the Hound, or for Sandor Clegane?”

Silence reigned, and finally Jaqen said, with a smile in his voice, “The Hound, lovely girl.”

Arya sighed in relief, and resting her arm, turned to the man who was struggling to contain her sister.

“Who are you?” she said tiredly. 

“The fuck do you mean, who am I?” he said gruffly. 

“Answer the fucking question!” she nearly screeched. “Who the fuck are you?”

“ _Sandor cunting Clegane!_ ” he bellowed. “I thought we established that when you assholes came into my studio!”

She threw her hands up, Catspaw PSS in one, empty hand in the other, and said, “Thank the gods. Jaqen?”

She looked over at him, and found his smirk plastered over his face.

“A lovely girl is as slow as paint drying on a cold winter’s day,” he said with a shrug, “but she gets there eventually. It will suffice.”

She was going to murder him.

“What the fuck is going on?” said Brienne, at the very end of her patience. She looked ready to kill them both.

“He says he is not the Hound,” she said, gritting her teeth. “He says he is Sandor _cunting_ Clegane. And so there is no contract for Jaqen to execute. Understand now?”

“Not hardly,” said Brienne, and Arya said, “Whatever. Just so long as you understand that if Sandor ever takes up his mercenary ways and adopts his old name, his life is forfeit. Names and identities matter to the Faceless Men. The contract will stay open. It cannot be reneged.”

“How do you know all of this?" asked Sansa, her face a mix of confusion, awe, and relief. Sandor just looked pissed off, but as he saw Jaqen moving to release his aim, holding his hands up in a classic sign of no harm, no foul, he relaxed slightly. Sandor still hadn't moved from his stance, but Sansa was tugging his arm down, trying to get him to release his aim. She wanted no bloodshed, and though the adrenaline marched high in his system, as he looked into her face and saw tears gathering in her eyes, he felt himself turning towards worry and care for her more than an overwhelming desire to shoot the Faceless Man in between his dancing, amused eyes.

Arya leaned down and picked up Selis’ face, reverently dusting it off and placing it into her rucksack. Her head was beginning to pound, and she felt incredibly tired.

“You don’t want to know,” she said to Sansa, closing the topic of the Faceless Men. 

“There you go again,” said Sansa, her eyes sad and filled with tears. “That’s what you do, what you've always done. Put distance between us. When will you learn, Arya? It's just us now. There's no one left.”

Arya looked up at Jaqen, and found his face was impassive again. She wondered how much of the order’s secrets she could share. Wondered what, as a former acolyte, she was allowed to share, before her name would become a contract. She was his lover, but how much could he really protect her?

“Jaqen?” she said quietly. 

“Beloved girl,” he said, and in his eyes, she saw warmth and acceptance. It was her call.

She turned to her sister and said, “Sansa...if you truly want to know what I was doing in Braavos...I will tell you.”

Her sister’s eyes brightened, and said, “Truly? Yes. Yes, I would like that very much. But after I finish my session here. And after you pay these two fine people some seriously grovelling, massive apologies.”

Arya flushed to the tips of her hair, and said began, haltingly, “I am very sorry. I made a mistake.”

“Get the fuck out of my shop,” said Brienne, cutting her off at the same time that Sandor barked, “Get the fuck out, and take that fucking poof with you.” They were having none of it.

Thoroughly chagrined and embarrassed, Arya quickly made her way back onto the street, leaving Brienne's keys on her desk, Jaqen’s unrepentant laughter following in their wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter, loves.
> 
> Also, I agonised about letting Sandor say that homophobic slur against Jaqen. But the fact is, Sandor isn't a nice man. He drops words like that because he's an asshole. The show and the books use that language for that purpose. 
> 
> However, is Sandor an actual homophobe? No. But will he use hurtful language like that if he thinks it'll hurt the listener? Unfortunately yes, he will. It's an attack for certain though, and apologise if it hurt any of you. Bottom of my heart, I would never want to hurt anyone that way. I am bisexual, and I agonised over that one word.
> 
> Myles is a genderfluid individual and defies traditional male dress, choosing instead to wear [something close to something like this](https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/86553624075487471/) but with silver rimmed glasses.


	10. The Shrine of Black Stone

She walked in the light drizzle of the growing evening light, feeling miserable and embarrassed in equal measures. She kept her pace quick and steady, but her head was reeling from everything she had seen and felt.

‘ _Fool_ ,’ she thought to herself. ‘ _How could I have been such a fool?!_ ’

Her pace increased, and she wound herself into the shadows more tightly, hardly caring if her boots clattered on the grey cobblestones beneath her. Invisible but noisy; in costume, but not faceless.

Arya Stark was an unholy mess of a girl.

She felt a large hand grab her shoulder. She wrenched away, automatically spinning to grapple at whoever had dared to touch her.

Red and white hair, golden eyes, and an unpitying expression met her merciless rage. Myles was gone; Jaqen H’ghar stood before her, but his face was blank and impassive.

“What do you want,” she hissed. “You could’ve told me all along what you’d known. You let me make a fool of myself on this stupid hunt!”

He moved back, and then looked around them, as though considering their location for the first time. They were standing under an ancient archway under the most timeworn sections of Oldtown, where the hollows of the Children of the Forest had long ago been converted into merchant vaults, many of which proclaimed ‘for sale or rent’ signs. Others were locked tight, with extra bars across thick ironwood shutters studded with bolts. He gazed down at her, and then gave her a look. She flushed. 

She had been shouting, and a few people were now giving them a wide berth.

“Does a girl still trust a man?” His voice was quiet, but it came out hard as Valyrian steel. His face, though impassive, looked as though it had been carved in stone. Still, it held a trace of something around his mouth that she alone could discern. If she had not been trained by this man, perhaps she would not have seen how he pressed his lips just so, how his teeth were clenched together. She could see the question had cost him something. 

She was so angry, so furious at him, and she replied instead, “When did you receive the name?”

His eyes became hooded slits in the gloom of the fog that was fast rolling through the archway. It seemed to her that the numbers of people that were passing by became like a rolling sea, thick and thin, fast and slow. He reached down with an arm, and pulled her closer to him, his lips suddenly at her ear.

”A man hates to repeat,” he snarled, the teeth grazing the shell of her ear. A warning, and then he stepped back. His face was impassive, as though nothing had occurred. 

Her heart was pounding in her chest, a reaction to him, and effortless as the fog that was steadily rising in the air. 

He was adjusting the worn rucksack on his shoulder as he stared into her eyes. Whatever he saw did not please him, for he shook his head, and turned his back to her. He looked into the gloom beyond, then gently shook his head again, his red and white hair shivering in the wind, and his lightly brown skin shimmered in the dew that gathered in the growing dampness of the air. 

Looking over his shoulder, he considered her one last time.

“Yes or no,” he said quietly. “Does Arya Stark still trust this man?”

She stared at him, and realised that he was very serious. There was no humour in his posture, no laughter. He had not called her a _lovely girl_ , but by her real name.

“What are you doing?” 

“A girl has eyes,” he replied. “A girl should use them.”

She looked at his posture, the way he was poised to walk away from her. She thought of the accusation in her question and shivered. Would he leave her? He had left her once before, after Harrenhal. Would he really leave her again after all they had been through together, and all they had done with each? To each other? Could he really just go?

She stared at his back, the rigidity of his pose, and realised the truth.

He would, if she did not trust him. 

She looked at him with her heart’s eyes, and she thought of how this man had asked for nothing from her but to come with her, wherever she roamed. This man sparred with her, trained her, and never asked for more than to stay by her side. Brutal step by painful mile, he had helped her to forge herself into a weapon. Even when she had run, he had never forced her to return the tools of his trade. And since his mysterious return to her life, they had created something strangely… good between them. 

‘He’s part of my pack,’ she thought, in mute realisation. A strange pack, where dominance and submission was a game they played for mutual satisfaction, where boundaries were constantly tested and pushed, but at the core was trust.

And that was the limit. And she had made him question that foundation.

She looked into the shadows surrounding this man, and saw the truth staring back at her, shining as clear as the Northern winter sky. 

“Yes,” she breathed, past the unknowing and uncaring people that moved along their way, under an ancient stone archway of Oldtown, the shadows gathering around them, and the fog playing at their feet. It was hardly a whisper, barely a sound that came from her belly, but it had moved her chest, and had escaped from her throat before she had known what was happening.

It was a response from somewhere so deep, it had no name.

And a man had heard.

His eyes shut for a moment, and she saw his head bow very slowly, and suddenly she felt like weeping. She did not know why, but she wanted to bow in return, nuzzle into his side, and seek out his warmth. Like a lone wolf, looking for shelter from a sudden storm, she wanted to burrow inside, and come out later. 

She was suddenly so very, very tired.

“Come,” he said to her, and taking her hand, he walked past rows of bolted vaults until he stood in front of one with two massive ironwood doors. It didn’t look any different from the others that surrounded them, but for a huge iron padlock that was twice the size of his fists. 

He reached into a pocket of his coat, retrieving a key. It fit the huge lock, which he tucked into his rucksack. Opening the doors, he led them inside. He retrieved an old-fashioned iron chamberstick from a small table, black with use, and lit the waiting candle. Then he closed the doors, and barred them shut with two heavy iron cross bars. 

He picked up the chamberstick, and holding it high enough to cast light, walked to the waiting stairwell, where he began to descend. He said not a word, but she followed.

“What is this place?” she whispered into the quiet darkness as she negotiated the ancient stone steps. It felt as though she was descending into an earlier time and place, though she could feel the fresh coolness of the air gently wafting around her. The temperature and slight breeze comforted her; it meant the Honeywine was flowing nearby, and ventilation was assured. 

“Sanctuary,” he intoned, with no emotional inflection. 

‘His voice,’ she thought, in sudden memory. ‘It’s like he’s no one again. Just like before, in the House of Black and White.’

She shivered, for she knew then that she was in the presence of the priest of Him of Many Faces, not her lover. Not Jaqen H’ghar.

For a moment, she stopped on the stairs behind him. She watched as the light of the candled diminished as he continued down the stairs, and soon she stood in the sudden darkness. She stood trembling, but his voice in her mind came to her again. 

Did she, Arya Stark, trust this man, or not? 

She straightened her spine, and continued down the dusty stone steps, trying to ignore the prickling of the hair on the back of her neck, and the drops of cold sweat that settled in the base of her spine. Her steps were much slower without his light, but she was unafraid.

She hadn’t really needed the candlelight anyway. 

\----------------------------------------------------------- 

At the base of the steps, no one waited for her. No one lit the candles surrounding the pool that was fed by the Honeywine, removed their clothes, and put on the black and white robes of old that waited on a broken pillar that had once held the statue of the Stranger. The room was cool, but not cold, and the ground below their bare feet was soft with packed earth. No one had been to the Shrine of the Black Stone before, and no one stared into the pool, where a sheaf of the naturally oily black rock lay shining and deadly at the bottom of the ever-swirling pool. The water splashed innocently, babbling like a babe, but the sheen on the surface was an unnatural blue and purple with a hint of green and yellow, even in the softly glowing candlelight. 

No one hooded their face deep in the black and white robe, and offered a swift prayer to Him of Many Faces.

Then they turned to wait with their hands clasped in front of them, their feet bare by the side of the cold, gently swirling, quietly whispering pool.

A young woman walked in, and took in the scene laid out in front of her. She quietly placed her rucksack on the floor, mindful of its contents, and removed her shoes. 

_Clever girls go barefoot_.

She stood in front of the priest, and said nothing. 

“Who are you?” no one asked. She could see no one in the shadows of the deep hood, could see no face. An endless void was asking her this question.

She considered her reply, and looked into the abyss of the faceless creature that stood before her, the priest of death, and pierced the heart of the matter with the grey eyes that knew him before all others, on this side of the veil, before Him of Many Faces, and claimed him.

She bared her teeth.

“I belong with Jaqen H’ghar, and he belongs with me, you son of a bitch!” 

She reached over and yanked his hood back, revealing an impassive face, still lost under the spell of no one.

She pushed his chest, hard. Crying out, her voice ringing in the rock cavern around them, she said, “I am Arya of House Stark, second of my name! You fucking asshole!”

She pulled the nape of his neck down, the tall bastard, and kissed him furiously. His mouth did not open, and she whined. She tried biting his lips, and tasted blood. Still, he did not respond. She was slipping down, and he did not lift her. She leapt upwards again, hooking her arms hard around his neck to force him down a scant inch, and used her strong legs to steady herself on the very tips of her toes. It hurt, standing as though she were a boxshoed dancer, but she ignored the pain that screamed in the bones of her toes. She had just enough height to reach him now.

“Please, Jaqen,” she finally said against his lips, the tears dropping and mingling into her mouth along with his blood. She pulled back and stared into the faceless visage, and felt her anger dissipating into a soul-deep despair. She felt like she was losing him. 

“I am yours, and you are mine,” she said at last, and kissed him very gently, cupping his beloved cheekbones in her hands, taking the blood from his lips, and giving him her submission to the truth.

A moment passed, and she finally felt his strong arms encircling her back, holding her up. The pain in her toes ceased. His mouth gently opened to hers, and she felt his tongue caress hers in acknowledgement. She tried to pull back, desperate to see Jaqen, to see his face return to life, but a strong hand had found the back of her head. Effortlessly, he still held her up to him with one arm, and turning her head, he drank her tears and his blood from her mouth. She moaned, quietly and piteously, and he took that as penance for the god too. 

His tongue slid against hers, smoothly and with just the smallest fractional pauses for breath, only to plunge back in, intent on stealing her breath away. He dominated the kiss, taking full possession of her mouth, and with him holding her so high against him, and only the very tips of her toes for balance, she trembled, gripping his robe tightly. 

Long moments passed, but finally, he pressed his forehead to her, then set her down. He looked down at her from his superior height, and the flush to his skin was gratifying to her, but he still ruled his face.

“Will you drink from the pool, Arya Stark?” he intoned seriously. His face was impassive again.

“Jaqen,” she started, looking at the pool beyond them. It was not the same as the one she had known from his temple in Braavos, but she knew enough to be wary of any pools associated with this priest. From his robes, he produced a familiar looking clay cup, and she stared at him in shock.

“Jaqen H’ghar is dead,” he said, as he looked over her, and as she watched, he changed his face back to that of the blond, Myles. Then he became the gardener he had worn earlier, and then Paulus, the tired old husband of Anna. Finally, he became the familiar red and white haired man she called Jaqen. 

“I don’t understand,” she said, her pulse racing. She knew she was breathing hard, but she had never seen him change his face in such quick succession, and never in such close proximity.

“A man hates to repeat,” he intoned quietly. A warning? But also a reminder. 

_Trust a man._

She looked down, and breathing heavily, steeled herself. She straightened her spine, and taking the clay cup from his hand, approached the swirling waters of the little pool. She dipped the cup, then turned around to look at him.

“If you’re poisoning me to death, I swear by the old gods and the new that I’ll haunt you until the end of time,” she promised him darkly. “I will mess up every hunt for every name you seek for the god. I’ll pull your toes in your sleep! Piss in every drink, and shit in every meal! I will _fuck you up_ , Jaqen H’ghar!”

Could ghosts piss and shit? She didn’t know or care. All she cared about was catching that smidgeon of a smirk in his gaze. It was only a flicker of shadow, but she would have sworn to the Mother that she saw it hiding somewhere, in the side of his lips. 

She hardened her gaze, and looking into his faceless mask, she drank the entire cup, not stopping until all of the liquid was gone. The coldness hit her empty belly immediately. She had not eaten that day except for nibbling at the rations of dried venison, nuts, and berries in their rucksacks. 

The clay cup fell to the floor as her hands became nerveless.

She caught the look of worry in his golden eyes, and felt a great deal of satisfaction in that, even as the unexpected convulsions began.

‘I guess Him of Many Faces wants to take me after all,’ she thought in a daze, as her vision blacked out.

She didn’t remember her legs giving out, or her body suddenly losing itself to hit the ground, but that was only because the priest caught her just in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never believed the only sacred spaces the Faceless Men would have in the world would be in Braavos. I like hidden places, holy springs, and hallowed spaces.
> 
> [According to AWOIF](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Arya_Flint), Arya is second of her name. She has a paternal great-grandmother named Arya Flint, who was a member of House Flint of the mountains.


	11. The Allegory of Simulation / Deception

Three figures stood some distance away from her, and each were clamouring over the incessant roar of a rushing water and beating of a drum that permeated the air around them. She realised with a start that the headache she had been carrying since leaving Elder Pattern had finally ceased, and the weight of the tension in her back and shoulders had been released.

“Hey,” she called out to the three silhouettes she could just make out in the shadowy gloom ahead. She was in a cave, and she realised it was the same cave as before, but Jaqen was nowhere to be found. She sat up, and saw she was sitting near the poisonous pool, only now it was more like a riotous whirlpool, and she frowned. The statue of the Stranger was on a tall, unbroken plinth nearby, and from its hooded visage, it stared sightlessly towards the raucous group. She realised the sound of the water was the flowing Honeywine, though it was much deeper and faster than what she remembered from the cave. What the hell was going on? 

As she looked towards the little group just beyond the fog at the edge of her vision, she realised with a start that she was looking at three women. “Hey, you there!” she shouted over the noise of the Honeywine. She stood up, brushed herself off, and began to walk towards them.

After just a few steps, she stopped. The ground beneath her was unexpectedly springy and sticky, and she looked down in surprise at her bare feet. When she lifted them up to check, she saw blood on her soles and her toes. Repulsed, she looked around her, but saw only more fog, more darkness beyond the statue of the Stranger and the little whirlpool. She could not even say how she was seeing any light.

Was she dreaming? It didn’t feel like a dream.

Chilled, she again began walking towards the three women, calling out to them and trying to listen to their argument. She could not make out any of their words, and the noise was scattering off the walls of the cave like the chitter of monkeys she had once seen for sale, crying out piteously and screaming in turn in the cages of the Braavos markets.

“Hey!” she finally shouted, waving her arms. “Where am I?” 

They continued to ignore her, and the roar of the water only increased in her ears. She began to feel frightened, and so she began to walk faster. Somehow, no matter how far she walked, they stayed as far away from her, at the same distance. She looked over her shoulder. Him of Many Faces, in the guise of the Stranger, stared back at her from the abyss of a hooded gaze. The drums beat harder in her ears.

 _Who are you_ , she heard a voice that was not a voice ask the spaces in between her bones, the secret places of her heart, the crevices of her mind where she dared not walk without all the lights on, her hands full of weapons, and her teeth bared. 

_Who are you_ , asked the voice again, and its height and depth was the sound of a mother weeping, calling for a child that would never be born. The cry of a father, who knows his son will never return from battle. The dusty smell of a manuscript that will never again be opened, misplaced and unloved, a monk’s toil of a lifetime forever lost to uncaring parasites and the endless march of time. The dark of the space between stars, a question without an answer, the horror of the unknown. It was a dark matter that called to her, called her to its side, recognised her, and sounded…. amused?

She began to run for her life, automatically seeking someone – anyone – to help her. 

The beating of the drums became faster, louder, a rhythmic pulse. Was something getting closer? She ran faster, her lungs on fire. She was screaming for help when suddenly, the three women turned as one, and their eyes glowed like points of glowing fire. 

In the pale light, she clearly saw their teeth, and they were unnaturally elongated and sharp. She saw how each tooth had been filed to points, how their eyes were sculpted into pulsing shadows that flickered into swirling edges beyond their faces. 

And then she realised she recognised the features of each one.

Selis, the wickedly beautiful girl from the crownlands.

Anna, the mouthy cleaner.

The unnamed older gardener, whose face was lined with age and pain.

Together they smiled, and before she could reverse course, they had whipped around to create a perfect pincer movement, surrounding her on all sides. They enveloped her, sinuous and deadly, and without a word, they took her down to the abnormal, bloody ground.

Arya screamed, writhing in their grips. 

“No! Let me go!” 

They said nothing, only petted her hair with their free hands, hissing benevolently, and smiling down at their prey. Pleased, so very pleased. She could see nothing in their blazing gazes. There was nothing human there to see – only an endless, fiery void.

“What are you?” she panted, as she tried everything Jaqen had taught her to get free. She grappled, twisted, trying to leverage her legs and her weight. Nothing worked. Their limbs were stronger than steel, and their grips were harder than iron. She could feel their fingers digging into her biceps, and she winced. More worryingly, she could also feel the ground beneath her give slightly, as though she was on a soft mattress. 

She remembered the blood on the soles of her bare feet, and shivered.

Hot liquid was spilling into her ear, and she felt something warm seeping into her hair; it was blood, she knew it was, and she felt bile in her throat. Tears were stinging her eyes; this was all wrong, this place was so very wrong. Wherever she was, whatever was going on, was fucked up in the extreme.

They clicked their tongues. ‘Some kind of language?’ she thought to herself.

And that was her last thought, as she could only watch in terror as she was held down. She could do nothing as together, they struck, quick as a snake, and bit into her face. 

Arya Stark closed her grey eyes, and screamed.

\----------------------------------------------------------- 

The priest watched her writhing on the thick mattress of his bed in his Oldtown apartment, and once again, wiped her brow with a cool cloth. It came away slightly pink, and he frowned. 

She was sweating blood again.

He dipped the soft cloth into the cool, clean water, wrung it out, and wiped her face again. He placed his cool hand on her forehead, then on her cheeks, and assessed what he felt. Her temperature was high, but not yet so high as to risk permanent brain damage. 

‘Not yet,’ he told himself, and he continued to cool her body down. He felt no guilt that she was naked in his bed, and that he had been the one to strip her down. He felt no remorse that he had been the one to lift her convulsing body from the Shrine of Black Stone and carry her up the stone steps, where an unregistered black town car had been waiting for them.

“Valar morghulis,” he had simply stated to the driver.

“Valar dohaeris,” the Braavosi driver had responded, and at the Faceless Man’s instruction, had taken them to this apartment. The priest had swiftly taken her to his bedroom, stripped her naked, placed her on this huge, comfortable bed, and then began the painful process of watching her purge the black stone poison from her system.

He lifted her arm, and wiped it down.

“Noooo…,” she moaned in her sleep, her fingers making a tight fist, thumb tucked under, arm drawing back in readiness. He watched with deep concern as she began to convulse, and he pre-emptively picked her up, leaned her over his arm, and tucked a clean basin under her chin.

She vomited hard, her stomach muscles contracting. She was not awake, precisely. Her grey eyes were seeing something else entirely as she finished; she was staring beyond, at the walls in front of her, but at something beyond her vision. Her fisted arm shot out.

“Get off my face, you bitch!” she screamed, and she knocked the basin to the ground. Then her fingers went flying towards her face. She was trying to scratch at herself, and Jaqen had no choice but to pull her hands away, lest she tear apart her own face in her rage.

“Peace! Peace, lovely girl,” he cried out, trying to soothe her, but she screeched, looking at him, but perceiving someone or something else.

“Get the fuck off of me! I’ll fucking kill you!” she shrieked, and she managed to knee him hard in his belly, just missing his cock and balls. He took the blow, huffing hard, and laid across her torso and legs to prevent any further damage. He held her wrists together and away from her face. She howled, fighting him, but his weight was far superior, and her illness had weakened her.

After ten seconds of violent struggling, she moaned and suddenly went limp again, her eyes rolling backwards. Her mouth dropped open, and she dropped back into unsettled unconsciousness.

He waited, unsure if this was a ruse. His lovely girl had tricked him before with such plays during better, more playful circumstances. He watched her carefully; her breathing was similar to sleep, even though she was whimpering and growling.

He decided the episode was over. He pulled away, assessing the damage to her body. ‘Minimal,’ he thought. The black substance still on her lips, chin, and trickling from her nose came from the vomit. The slight blood on her forehead came from the continuing sweat.

He carefully moved away from the bed, mindful of the spilled basin. He picked up the cool wet cloth, and carefully cleaned her face. He sighed. The black stone was doing its intended work, but it was rough medicine. He would have to coax more water into her again to prevent dehydration. He carefully situated her back to the side of the bed, then turned to assess the red ceramic tiled floor.

It was splashed with a liberal amount of black, oily tar-like substance, along with a small amount of bile and spit. He quickly cleaned up the basin and the mess, disinfecting his floor with the required chemicals. All traces of the natural poison were to be treated as extremely deadly, even after being partially digested in stomach acid. He vigorously scrubbed the floor with the strongest disinfectants his order had, though in truth, he knew of no antidote to the black stone. 

He listened to the pitiful symphony of her moans, groans, and shouting as he worked; it spurred his actions, though he would take no short-cut measures here. He cursed himself for losing hold of the basin. ‘A man will not repeat that mistake,’ he vowed.

Finally, when the cleaning was to his satisfaction, he threw himself into a fast shower, scrubbing every part of himself as viciously as possible without drawing blood. Donning a fresh set of priest’s robes again, he returned to the bedroom.

She was shivering, and had flung the covers off in her delirium; her fever was peaking. He checked her temperature; it was too high.

He cursed, and refreshed the water basin with fresh, cold water. He laid it over her brow; it came back pink and warm within moments.

She began to retch again in her sleep, and he barely had time to pull the basin under her chin. Black ooze came from her lips, and as he wiped, he looked into her face. She did not respond, but to his dismay, the ooze began to seep from her eyes. 

He gently wiped it away, cleaning it with such care and precision that it left no trace on her bloodless, pale skin, but he had never seen or heard of such a reaction to the black stone cleansing. His fingers shook as he placed the basin on the floor. He threw the tainted cloth into the trash, along with so many others. He washed his hands, then returned to her.

“A man warned a lovely girl,” he murmured, as he looked down at her shivering body. “The faces are no trifle, and are poison to those who are not no one.”

He lifted her pale hand, and saw that the edges of her nailbeds were crusted with blood. He sighed, realising that even here, her body was pushing the infection out of her system. He picked up the cold water, and dipping a single finger in, let it soak before attempting to clean it. He sighed.

“So stubborn,” he murmured. “Always more courage than sense. And more pride than wisdom! Has a girl forgotten that fear cuts deeper than swords? If a beloved girl had asked a man what he knew, a man would perhaps have shared what he had known. Enough at least, to satisfy a lovely girl. But a girl did not. What is a man to do, but let a sweet girl find her way?” 

He sighed, and pulled her hand from the water. He gently rubbed at the nailbed, taking the blood away. He repeated the process for the next finger, letting it soak in the water.

“A man is reduced to hovering like a hawk, high in the sky, circling and watching only, as the wolf hunts and stalks her prey. Hoping that one day, she might relent, might permit a man to land nearby. To partake of a few morsels of whatever remains of her kill.” 

He looked at her then, and shrugged, insouciance in his bones. He was not the priest now, and was not even trying to pretend at being anything less than what she had made him. 

“So, a man has cheated sometimes. Smoothed the road for the wolf. Has a wolf not supped upon enough pain and suffering to last two lifetimes? Should a man not call upon his shadows to aid a wolf?” He looked into her bloodless face, as she grimaced and snarled at her unknown assailants, her teeth gritted, then smoothing out as some battle was being played out in an arena he could not follow.

“What if a hawk wishes to hover no longer?” he whispered. “What if a hawk wishes to become a wolf?”

She said nothing to this, growling and snarling at her phantoms, and he sighed, lifting her finger from the water. He cleansed it as well, lost in his thoughts. He dipped her next finger in the water, and continued his watch in silence. 

There was nothing more a man wanted to say.

When the convulsions began for the last time, he lifted her and placed her into the waiting lukewarm bath, his final option, and one he had hoped to avoid. He held her against his chest, and murmured quietly into her ear. 

There was nothing romantic about it. He was terrified for her, and she was a boiling, angry wolf in his arms. He kept his priestly robes on, for in those moments, he felt certain that if the god was going to take Arya Stark from him, he was damned well going to answer to his priest as well.

He gritted his teeth to prevent them from chittering in the bath that felt freezing to him, while she shook uncontrollably in his arms from her fever. He continuously pulled her to him, while she bit and scratched at his arms, hating the bondage, sometimes screaming and howling, sometimes vomiting bile and ever-smaller amounts of oily black liquid into a waiting basin he kept nearby. He gave up trying to keep them both completely clean, and simply opted for topping the water with enough warmth to prevent excessive chills.

It was the most miserable night he would remember for a very, very long time.

As the dawn broke and he lay in the bed with her, both of them dry and tucked around the last clean towels he owned, along with a thick set of furs and blankets, her bloodshot eyes opened, and she peered at him in complete disorientation and confusion.

“….Jaqen?” she croaked.

His golden eyes blinked open, and she saw the sunrise reflecting in them, through the gauzy curtains behind her. His hair was a tumbled down mess on the pillows between them, a tangled riot of red and white. The bags under his eyes looked huge, as though he had not slept in a hundred years.

“What the fuck happened?” she said, her voice breathy and thin. Her throat was so raw. She tried to swallow, and winced.

He tried to smile, but the look of pain in his eyes was undeniable.

“Beloved wolf,” he murmured.

She blinked in surprise. He had never called her that before. She looked down and saw they were both naked, but curled into bath towels. “Where are we?” she said, and tried to sit up. She found she could not, lacking strength in her arms. 

He sat up, and the towel revealed his hard arms and shoulders, his chest and belly. She enjoyed the view, and gently ran her hand up his closest bicep, biting her lower lip gently. He lifted her hand and brought it to his lips, gently kissing the fingertips.

“Oldtown, still. A safe house. Thirsty?” 

‘More surprises,’ she thought. She nodded, and he stood up to attend to her needs. She watched with sleep-fuddled pleasure as she took in his broad shoulders and his long, lean back, all peppered with scars. She particularly appreciated his beautiful ass, all rounded and pleasing. His thick legs, the strong calves, even his feet were beautiful to her. As he walked back, she took in his front, and her face was smug.

‘Mine,’ she thought possessively. ‘My mate.’ 

She tried to sit up, but found herself entirely too dizzy to accomplish even that simple task. She frowned.

“What the fuck,” she cursed.

He sighed, and placing the clay mug on the nightstand, he lifted her and adjusted the pillows to allow her to sit upright and comfortable in the bed.

“It is normal, after a black stone purging,” he said.

She took the clay mug from his hands, and drunk greedily, but glared at him over the rim.

“So, you did poison me,” she said, her eyes baleful and angry.

He sat beside her, and inclined his head.

“If I had not,” he replied, “the spirits of the faces would have taken you eventually. One by one, bit by bit. You are not no one. They were already plotting, yes?”

She sat still, and bowed her head. She could remember very little, but something about that rang true. Something about three women…and they were biting her face? She shuddered, and sipped her water.

“The faces, when used by one who is training to become no one may, perhaps, not be entirely poisonous,” he intoned. “However, there is always a risk that the spirit of the face will embed like a seed into the mind of the one who is not faceless. 

“The spirits of the faces belong to Him of Many Faces and are His instruments for His Faceless Men. Those who paid with their lives for the gifts they requested of the Faceless Men.... they _remember who they are_. To live and serve, they are temporarily grafted onto a Faceless Man. This is also their payment to Him of Many Faces. When you, Arya Stark, compete with their identity as you wear their faces, you interfere with this bond. You are not Faceless; you are Arya Stark. You do not serve the god, not directly. You serve Arya Stark. You disquiet their souls. Did you not consider there might be a price?”

His voice was angry now, and very, very cold. She shrunk into the towel and blankets he had folded around her naked body.

He continued, ruthlessly.

“For years, the Order watched as the Many Faced God has protected Arya Stark, above all others. The madness of the faces never descended, despite a lovely girl’s blasphemy. A man believed, as the Order believed, that perhaps the god was served through Arya Stark. Perhaps, if a girl used but one, or just two. But then a man saw a girl use three faces in a single day. Too many, sweet girl. Far, far too many.”

He shook his head. 

“So, you had to poison me?” she countered, angry and hurt.

“Purge the faces,” he corrected. 

She stared at him, and then looked down at the clay mug in her hands. She sipped it, and pondered her willingness to accept more water from clay dishware from this man, then shrugged it off in her mind. ‘Valar morghulis,’ she thought dully.

“Was a man wrong,” he pushed at her. “Did a girl fight the spirits of the faces?”

She shuddered.

“No, you weren’t wrong,” she said, woodenly and exhausted. “I fought them.”

He waited a moment, then said, almost timidly, “Will a girl tell a man what she saw?”

She looked up, surprised. For once, her teacher looked almost ... painfully eager? Like a small boy, looking for confirmation of something. She realised it was perhaps confirmation of something to do with his faith, his religion, and she was embarrassed. She looked across at the room she was in, seeing it fully for the first time. There was a beautiful painting over a fireplace across from the bed, and in the painting was a woman in an azure blue dress over a fine white shirt. Upheld in her right hand was a mask, and in her left, a juicy, open pomegranate. Her dark hair was modestly covered by a wrapping, and her fair face was severely serene, almost impassive, but her black eyes and gentle pink lips seemed to suggest facelessness. She shivered.

“I don’t know if I can,” she began haltingly, trying to stave off the inevitable disappointment in his eyes. She could not meet his gaze. “It was all so strange. And most of it has faded away already.”

He stared at her, but then nodded once, and accepted her words without further pressure. If he was disappointed, he did not show it.

She glanced over at him, and said, “Jaqen, when did you get the Hound’s name?”

He looked back at her, smirked, instantly back to being her mischievous former Faceless master, and chucked her chin affectionately. “Can a girl not guess?”

She considered her question, then said, “The morning we left Winterfell. When you spoke to the Kindly Man and asked where Sansa had last been seen.” 

“Just so.” He stroked her dark hair, letting the back of his knuckles trail against her pale white cheek. Her face was chalky white this morning, and the purple shadows under the eyes pulled at his chest. She had not appeared so unhealthy since her battle with Night King. She coughed slightly, and he winced. 

She grabbed his hand, and looked into his face.

“So, what now?” she said quietly. 

He sighed, and said, “A girl must phone her sister, eat, and rest.”

She scowled, not liking the sound of any of it. He tweaked her nose, and she swatted his hand away. 

“Would a lovely girl prefer a man to speak on her behalf?” The twinkle in his eyes was back, and she recoiled. 

“Give me my phone!” she demanded. He chuckled, and stood up, flexing his muscles, preening in the sunlight.

“A man is unsure if a girl can cope with such a difficult task, after such a painful evening. It is no mind. Valar dohaeris!” He sauntered into the doorway, a definite sway to his powerful hips. 

She threw a pillow at him, her strength beginning to return. Or perhaps merely fuelled by her pique. Her aim was miserable, and she missed him entirely, hitting instead a golden vase on a black lacquered table that decorated the wall just to the left of the entranceway. It wobbled, but did not crash to the floor. He slid a look over one shoulder, and smirked. 

“Bastard,” she muttered under her breath as he returned with her phone, the light playing with his face in the dark of the passageway. His hair, mussed and unkempt, gave him a rogueish air. His nude figure was proud, and he watched with slightly lidded eyes as she glowered at him from the bed. Annoyed, she was becoming aroused at the appearance of his undeniable beauty, from the scars over his shoulders to the rounded stars of old bullet holes over his lightly rigid abdomen. She felt herself getting wet between her legs, under the towel and blankets. She scowled.

“Gimme,” she said, holding her hands out impetuosly. He played with the object, standing near to the bed, but not yet coming to her side.

“Hmm?” he queried with arrogance.

She knew this game, and sighed. She weighed the pros and cons, and then tossed her head back, exposing her throat for a moment. Just a moment, before dropping her mouth open, and saying, “Please. Jaqen.”

A happy smirk appeared on his beloved face, and he rested a knee of one powerful leg on the bed, letting her see how her submission, however grudging, pleased him. She glanced down, seeing his cock rising, and bit her lip very gently, then looked back up, coquettishly, through sooty lashes. 

She coughed, ruining the moment. He sighed, and gathered her gently into his arms.

“A girl should phone, then eat, then rest,” he intoned with patience, threading her hair gently through strong, lithe fingers.

“And then?”

“And then a man shall fuck her through the mattress,” he purred into her ear, taking a lobe and tugging gently with his teeth. A promise and a threat.

She giggled, and plucked the phone from his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The painting in Jaqen's apartment is [an unnamed oil on canvas painting](http://www.hellenicaworld.com/Art/Paintings/LorenzoLippi/LLippi0020.jpg) dated circa 1640 by Lorenzo Lippi (3 May 1606 – 15 April 1665) that has since come to be called _Simulazione_ ( _Allegory of Simulation / Deception_ ). It is housed in the Musée des Beaux-Arts d'Angers, France. 
> 
> A recent interpretation of the meaning of the painting is that Lippi intended the mask to indicate an allegory of imitation ('artful deception' or 'acceptable fraud'), and the pomegranate to indicate a unifying symbol of the arts, including literature and poetry. (In: Fumagalli, Elena (Hrsg.): Firenze milleseicentoquaranta : arti, lettere, musica, scienza. Venezia 2010, 311-323 u. Abb. (Studi e ricerche / Kunsthistorisches Institut in Florenz, Max-Planck-Institut ; 6.)
> 
> Sounds like a perfect Renaissance Faceless (Wo)Man to me. (And don't even get me started on the whole Faceless 'Man' thing. It should've been a non-binary order to begin with.)


	12. Resonate (part 1)

He waited until she woke up again from a deep, healing sleep. She looked less haggard, less grey like death, and he handed her a bowl of slightly thickened chicken soup. He had prepared it for hours in the old way, simmering the stock, adding vegetables one by one, and she scowled, informed him that she was not an invalid, and burned her mouth in her haste to assuage her appetite. 

“A girl will bathe,” he said mildly, and left freshly laundered linens at the foot of the bed. 

“Jaqen!” she cried, as he walked away towards the rough oak door leading to the darkened hallway of the rooms beyond.

He looked over his shoulder, and she paused, looking into the soup. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled. “For saving me. Again.”

He inclined his head, and went to draw her bath. He felt unbalanced again, knowing something had shifted back between them. He wanted her, was desperate to feel her around him, but felt unsettled in a way that he knew stemmed from his place as her former master in the House of Black and White.

From the years he had spent wandering in the shadows around her, to the moment she had let him into her bed, he had straddled the line between former master and Master. Always pushing and pulling, but never blurring the line. He had told himself that he played a game with intricate rules known only to himself and Him of Many Faces. Sometimes he was priest. Sometimes he was no one. Other times, in their bed play, he was the devoted Master to Arya’s sweetly demanding soul. 

Juggling roles was an innate discipline to a Faceless Man. To do so in service of Him of Many Faces and the one who was clearly blessed above all? An act of devotion.

But to blur the lines… that was unsettling.

He thought of the pool in the Shrine of Black Stone and shuddered. There had been no guarantee that Arya would return to him intact and hale, let alone alive. The god could have taken her completely, leaving Jaqen with just another mask for the hall. Or perhaps the god have would let the spirits of the faces flay away pieces of her mind. There was no way of knowing what the god would do; even the most devoted Faceless Man could not predict the will of Him of Many Faces. 

He had seen her focus crumbling as the days had passed on the hunt, her logic flailing into riskier and more self-destructive behaviours. He had known it was partially out of desperation for her sister’s welfare, but he had also known how the spirits of the faces operated. He knew how jealously they guarded their duties and powers. For years she had used and abused their gifts, and she had finally given them an opportunity for payback. 

'A man had no choice,' he argued to himself as he filled the marble bath. He reached over to a small niche in the wall and found two small glass vials. He added a few drops of precious sandalwood and rose oils to the water, breathing in their scents in satisfaction. 

A hand on his lower back startled him, and he cursed himself. 

“You’re dead,” she whispered into his ear as she wrapped her arms around his waist. He was wearing his priest robes, and as he reached behind him to touch her, he realised she was completely bare. His breath caught, and she giggled. Her hand wandered downwards, the wretch, and found his half-hard erection. Gently palming it, he felt himself rapidly hardening.

“Mmm,” she said, rubbing her face against the centre of his shoulder blades. He was too tall for her to reach higher, but she was content to find his red and white hair, bury her face against his back, and continue petting her prize. “What’s this? The dead man has angel lust? A girl must decide to fuck a dead man. Hmm…”

He snorted indelicately, then held his hand over hers, stopping her play. He turned in her arms, and lifting both of her hands in his strong fists, he raised his eyebrows and looked at her with glaring patience, ignoring how his cock pressed insistently against her soft white belly. Her pink tongue licked her lips as she stared up at him, moon-coloured eyes almost swallowed whole, her pupils gone nearly black with desire.  


“Bathe, lovely girl,” he simply said. He lifted her up, and deposited her gently into the steaming, slightly oily bath water. She hissed, and he smirked in response. He rolled his sleeves back, exposing lean, ropey, muscled arms. He gestured for her to lean back. Slowly, she did so, staring into his eyes as she forced herself into the scalding water. Kneeling, he picked up a medium-sized clay pitcher on the floor. He reached into the water, and cradling her by the back of her neck, he commanded, “Close your eyes.”

She stared into his face, and reluctantly did so. He dipped the pitcher into the hot water, then slowly and carefully poured the water over her scalp, wetting her hair. He felt her relax instantly into his hand, the buoyancy of the water taking the rest of her body weight. He repeated the rinse, letting her hair become saturated. 

He continued with washing her hair, gently working up a thick lather, then rinsing carefully, keeping the soap from her eyes. She floated, her hands idly moving in the water, her knees poking up, but otherwise she remained still and perfectly content to let him work. It was so rare to see her at ease, under a spell of his making, in complete trust in his care. His heart burned in him, and he pushed the emotion down, becoming no one for a moment as he placed her care before all else. 

'A man has no emotions in this,' he told himself sternly. 

Effortlessly, she broke his composure, sighing in unconscious gratitude and pleasure. He saw her hands drifting open in the water, watched her legs drift slightly akimbo in serenity. The echo of her voice filled the space in the damp bathing chamber and breathed into his heart, filling his chest, destroying the paper-thin mask of no one that he had managed to erect for just a moment as he finished rinsing the soap from her hair. 

Arya Stark was his, and he was hers, and that was all there was to it. 

He surrendered to emotion, the blurry lines, all of it. 

He continued to support her head in the water, and leaning over, he kissed her forehead, closing his eyes. If no one saw the salty new drops of water anointing the young woman in the bath, that was just as well. An errant lock of red and white dipped forward, and more quickly followed, falling into the water surrounding her, becoming a curtain that resembled blood and snow. It was fitting, he decided in the space between his breath and hers. He placed one heavy, wet palm in the centre of her chest, between two small, perfect white breasts, their peaks slightly puckered in the air. Her warm hands came over to hold his in place, and together they breathed. 

\-------

They walked back to the bedroom, her wrapped in a thickly woven linen towel, him still in his priest’s robes, both dripping slightly on the hardwood flooring of the hallway. Both with a new peace radiating from their bodies. There was no need to speak, and for once, even the ever-mouthy girl was content to keep her silence. 

He led her to the giant floor cushions set upon a thick, woven carpet of reds, blacks and browns that sat a good distance away from the fireplace. She settled herself on a fine, overstuffed cushion as he set about getting the fire going. In her cosy linen towel, she sat ramrod straight, still Catelyn’s daughter, watching as eventually the fire accepted the large chunk of wood he placed upon it. He turned to her then and measured her slowly, raking his gaze from her damp hair to the small pink toes he saw peeking out from under her towel. Silently, he took up his rucksack and sat behind her, his giant cushion touching hers.

She heard him rustling in his bag, and then she smelled the oil. Wordlessly, he had dripped a small amount of costly golden rose oil onto his hands, and was now carefully working it into the damp strands of her hair. The heat from the fireplace was warming their bodies, but instead of feeling sleepy, her body was beginning to hum with anticipation.

He brought out his personal bone comb to untangle her hair, and she stared into the fire. Gently, so exquisitely tenderly, he combed her hair, letting the warmth of the fire dry the strands and the oil work its magic. It had become longer in the passing months since the battle with Night King, and though she had often threatened to cut it, dark looks from him had somehow stayed her hand. It swung to her shoulder blades now, a terrible length for an assassin, but wonderful for wrapping around a fist and tugging _just so_. She shivered.

If he noticed her wriggle, he ignored it. He had begun to style her hair, and she sighed in pleasure, closing her eyes as he twisted and braided the strands into a simple fishtail braided style for sleeping that she preferred, starting from above her ears, and working down to the nape of her neck. 

She had taught him the way months ago, and though she did not often ask him to play lady’s maid, nor did he often volunteer, his clever fingers were more than up to the task. He never viciously pulled at her skull, not like Sansa or Catelyn often had, and had proven adept at the complicated styles that required a large bone needle and thread to produce the formal, and much heavier, braided styles. Not that she ever missed any of those, but it was useful to know someone could do that for her if she needed it. For a disguise, she had told him sternly, not for being a lady. 

“That’s not me,” she had said with a fierceness, and he had quirked his lips with such humour as though to ask why a lovely girl had felt the need to state the obvious. Such a truth was incontrovertible to one such as Jaqen H’ghar: water was wet, fire was hot, and Arya Stark would never be a Westerosi lady. 

She was shivering with desire as he finished his task, his hands in her hair always did this to her, and turning in his arms, she met his eyes. The pattern of the fire set off the gold in his naturally tawny coloured eyes, and she let the towel fall to her waist as she stared into his heated gaze. He dipped his eyes, staring at the slope of her shoulders, the tips of her breasts, and then down to her waist, where just a hint of what lay below could be seen. She could see how his breathing was slightly changing, a sign of how she was affecting him, though she could see nothing of his cock with how he sat, cross-legged in his priest’s robes. She moved forward to remedy that, wanting to taste him, to feel him.

His arms shot forward, holding her shoulders, stopping her in place. 

“Are you… that is… a girl should rest.”

She grinned, and said, “You lapsed in your speech. Are you worried about me?”

He scowled. “A girl was very ill less than one day ago, and should eat and rest, not seek bed play.”

“A girl feels much better now, and can eat later.” She broke his hold with her arms, noting that if he had wanted to keep her immobilized, that had been a very poor attempt indeed. He huffed and rolled his eyes. 

She scooted forward on her knees, letting the damp towel trail behind her like a forgotten veil. Kneeling in front of him, she kept her breasts level at his mouth, and with a sigh, brazenly took one in her hand, the underside filling her palm. She gently pressed her thumb down over the nipple, then rolled it around a few times. She moaned softly, then without any further preliminaries, rubbed it over his mouth, a small smile on her face. Her milky skin illuminated to white gold with the glow of the fire.

He stared up at her, and in defiance of her antics, tightened his lips against the bud of her nipple, unwilling to give quarter. In return, she pouted magnificently. He ignored the twitch in his groin. He seen her shiver when he played lady’s maid and drowned his fingers in her dark brown hair. Though his groin tightened in protest at the thought of foregoing the pleasure she offered, he pushed it aside and indulged instead in annoyance at her antics. 

'Always more courage than sense,' he thought with heat. 'Never a thought to self-preservation.'

He would not take advantage of her in a weakened state. Nor would he let her control him, no matter her physical state. His cock tightened again in complete agreement. He wanted to tie her up, feast on her cunt, take his pleasure in her holes – her mouth, her ass, her cunt, and hear her beg for every scrap of pleasure he would deign to give her. Would he flick his teeth on those pretty white breasts? Bring out the nipple and clit clamps he’d tossed into the silk pouch stitched into an inside pocket of his rucksack? Such tiny little torture devices that, when properly applied, could bring his lovely girl to screaming heights of pleasure, making her squeeze and milk his cock properly. He knew how she needed that edge of pain, needed to ride that edge with the pleasure. Only once she was mewling with desperation could he take the clamps off, then flick and rub the poor abused buds as gently or hard as he pleased as he teased her to devastating completion, taking her over the ridge of hard climaxes again and again while he did, her over-sensitised flesh at his command to hurt and pleasure however he desired. And once she was wrung-out with pleasure, surrendered to his control, only then could he take his own pleasure in her body, feeling her limp, at peace, and completely ready to accept his pleasure in her body, however he desired to take it. And his desires were wild tonight, after seeing her come too close to meeting Him of Many Faces.

His face became like iron, with his will matched. He ruled his face. The priest was in charge, and she was not. 

Deciding to play dirty, she sighed deeply. “So, a girl must show a man that she is nice and healthy,” she said with feigned irritation. She leaned backwards, moving as gracefully and flexibly as a Lyseni dancer, all to let him see everything he was missing. She spread her thighs across his crossed legs. 

He couldn’t help it; he looked. Gritting his teeth, struggling to rule his body’s reaction, he thought, ‘This is how easily she destroys a man’s will?’ It would not do. He continued to rule his face, and looked upwards, away from the tableau set before him, the veritable feast she offered. He set his eyes at some distance beyond her, and set about ruling his breathing.

“Would a man like a cunt show?” she asked, innocent as a maid.

His eyes flew back to her, and she smirked, the little shit, completely unabashed, gloriously pleased to have his attention back where it belonged.

Using the fingers of one hand, she opened her puffy labia and displayed herself. She adjusted her legs over his thighs, ensuring he had a good view. Using the other hand, she began to do precisely whatever she wanted. She started at her entrance, looking for as much wetness as she could find. She rotated her fingers, picking up moisture, teasing her hole, and moaned softly. She lifted her fingers up, rubbed them together, then returned them to herself, and began to move them around her folds. 

“Look at a lovely girl’s cunt,” she said plaintively from where her head lay on the floor cushion, her voice becoming huskier with desire. “It is _so wet_ for a man. All pink and soft.” 

He flinched, and she smirked. He immediately ruled his face, and she thought, ‘Still playing?’ His heart was a riot of worry for her, worry that she was pushing herself too far again, that perhaps the poison was still somewhere in her system, that he needed to stop her---

She gently tugged at her labia, enjoying the sensation, then moved back to her hole. She pushed one, then two fingers in, moaning as she found the spongey spot at the topside that she loved so much. Pressing hard against it, she let her fingers grind, the heel of her hand pressing against her clit. Gradually, she let her hand move in and out, slowly at first, then gaining a steady pace. The sound of it was sloshy with her slickness, and the panting of her breath was loud in the quiet room. She picked up speed, clenching against the fingers applying such exquisite pressure to the roof of her cunt, and the sound of her palm slapping against her clit ricocheted in tandem with the popping of the wood in the fireplace. She was mewling softly, her pleasure rising, but he refused to let her see what it did to him. What all of this was doing to him. 

“It’s so good,” she said, and she pushed her hips up, her feet on the floor, legs spread open before him. If this was going to be a cunt show, she was gonna make it a damned good one. She pulled her fingers out, and spread her folds wide open. 

“Oh no, a girl is making _such a mess_ …. and it’s all for a man,” she said, her eyes wide with affected surprise. Smiling, she used errant fingers to slip along the side of her pearl, then began to writhe all over again, all the while keeping her folds open to him. One finger along her pearl, then two. Over and over she circled, then dipped down to her hole, looking for more of her slickness. Back up to the knot of sensation at the top of her slit, rolling her fingers over and around. Again and again, edging and slowing down. Never letting herself come, but showing him how much she wanted to. 

She stuffed three fingers into her hole, and began to grind down hard. A foot made its way over a man's shoulder, and she braced herself. She was getting completely worked up, and that was not part of the game. 

‘Slow down, Arya,’ she told herself. 

Reluctantly, she pulled her fingers away from her clit, but her body produced a full shudder from the sheer desire racing through her now. She peeked up to look at him, and was rewarded for all her hard work. 

He was staring at her slit, and she watched his gaze follow her movements as she lifted her hand up slowly, out of her cunt, and so slowly into the firelight. The interest registered only in his eyes, for his face hard as stone, faceless and remote as the Northern mountains.

A pale line of mucus shimmered between her three fingers, glimmering in the firelight.

“Should a girl clean this up, or a man?” 

His facelessness shattered as he glared with real irritation at her. He grabbed her wrist, and stuffed her fingers into his mouth, sucking hard, but in a perfunctory manner. His tongue stroked from the bottom of her knuckles to the tips of her fingers, and then he pulled them away from him, holding her hand by the wrist, and staring at her with malevolence. The burst of very slight salt lit his mouth, but there was almost no other flavour, the bath having done its work well. 

After bathing was his favourite time to take her, to feast upon her cunt, and the little shit knew it. Completely delighted by her victory, she broke into a sunny grin below him, the rare dimples of her cheeks even making an appearance. She giggled. He scowled.

She stared into his face, and licked her mouth. She was painfully aware that she had not yet kissed him, and had been wanting to do so for hours. It felt like days since they had kissed, since she had felt his mouth invade hers. Her throat was dry, and she wanted more than anything for him to lick her now, anywhere, everywhere, but most especially to take her mouth and claim her again.

“A girl has lacked discipline, for many days,” he warned. “And I,” he said in a rare loss of self-abnegation, “need more than this. You have been very ill, and I may be unable to hold back.”

She shivered as he dropped her arm down. 

“I can take everything you can give me,” she vowed. 

A beautiful, tawny eyebrow moved upwards.

“Master,” she amended.

“We shall see, lovely girl,” he murmured. She assessed the steely authority in the depths of his eyes and the downward curve of his disapproving mouth. She wanted to kiss that curve away, see him soften again towards her, but she knew that she could not now. She would have to earn the privilege to please him.

“Turn over,” he commanded, and she complied immediately. He wasted no time. He slapped one perfect globe, and was rewarded by the sound of his hand hitting her ass, and the shocked exclamation that came from its owner. He grunted, then hauled her over his lap.

“Discipline,” he said roughly. 

“Oh gods,” she moaned, as she lifted her ass and moved her head down, readying herself.

“Partners listen to each other,” he said quietly, as he moved his battered and calloused hand over her ass. “They rely on each other’s wisdom and knowledge. A lovely girl refused both, and made foolish mistakes. Amateur mistakes. Any other hunt, a girl or a man may have died due to a foolish girl’s mistakes.” 

She stilled in his lap. This was not going where she thought it might. She squirmed. He continued.

“Do you accept discipline?” he said quietly. He was holding her carefully, but rigidly. The muscles of his thighs were like bricks under her, and she knew that her answer would have consequences, one way or another. She considered, and sighed. He was right, dammit. He was always right.

“Yes,” she breathed. 

The crack on her ass came hard, and she shrieked in shock as much as pain. He held her down, and continued the discipline. Every smack from his hand on her ass hurt like hell, and she found herself screaming abuse at him, telling him to stop, that she hated him, that she wasn’t sorry, and that she was going to kill him. She tried to wriggle away, but the iron grip he had on her upper body was like a vice, and she could not get away.

Jaqen said nothing, but he noted that she had said no safe words, and though he hated to hear what she was screaming, he continued. Every blow to her was like ripping open the part of him that had been terrified for her life, and until she recognised that she had put them both in that place, the discipline continued. For Arya, it was as though the one she trusted was gone. In his place, some sadistic monster was instead hurting her, hitting her ass repeatedly, often in the same place, sometimes moving down slightly to the area between her thighs and her ass, and all of it hurt. She was moaning, and it was not in pleasure. Tears sprang in her eyes. She wanted him to stop, and began to beg for him to do so, but he ignored her pleas, hearing no safe words, and she tried again and again to move away, clawing at the cushion beneath them, at the rug, but his grip only tightened. 

A deep ache in her chest began to build, and she thought of how Jaqen was always there for her, and how she had failed to listen to him from the start of the hunt for her sister. He had suggested to her that perhaps if Sansa had not been with Ramsay, she should just be left alone, but she had not listened. He had warned her about the faces, but she had brushed aside his concerns. And when the confrontation with Brienne at Elder Pattern had gone so disastrously wrong, he had said outright that she was making mistakes. In Braavos, as her master, that would have meant a beating at best, or some sadistic torture at the hands of the Waif at worst. Instead, he had let her continue to make her own judgement calls, poor as they had been. And then apparently, she had left herself open to the spirits of the faces, forcing Jaqen to take a risk in purging the poison. Forcing him to make a choice that could have ended her life... ending the life of his lover.

Tears sprang in her eyes, and she began to weep. A hand paused in the air, and she wept harder.

“I’m s…sorry,” she wept into the cushion below her face. Snot, tears, and spit were decorating the cushion, and she felt revolting, all thoughts of sex having fled when the discipline began.

A deep sigh came from the man holding her down, and abruptly she was lifted into his arms. He wrapped himself around her, his long robes giving her shelter, and he let her sob. She cried and cried, thinking of how she thought she had lost Sansa again. She wept for how she had seen her moving in the sept, and thought that she was going to need to kill for her sister this time. 

But what good would killing Ramsay would do if her sister had gone back to him willingly? How could she kill the hooks that he had made it into her sister’s heart, if such self-destructive self-hatred was something that even Arya, famed hunter and killer, could not seek and destroy? What solution could be found for one who did not want to save themselves? And through it all, in the shadows and by her side, Jaqen had stood, never holding her back, never trying to stop her. Always supporting her, even when she made poor decisions that affected them both.

"I'm...so sorry, Jaqen," she said into his chest. "For making you make a terrible choice."

She wept harder then, and Jaqen held her tight, saying nothing, but holding her as she fell apart in his arms. He balanced the weight of her pain with the terror of losing her, and felt something begin to soothe inside. The riot of fear and anger that had been reigning in his heart was dissipating in the storm of her tears. She was alive, and she was in his arms. He did not think she would try this particular brand of bullshit again. At least, maybe not for a while. It would have to suffice. 

He held out a handkerchief, procured from his rucksack, and let her clean her face and blow her nose. She stared at him, and said, “That fucking hurt, you asshole.” He quirked an eyebrow and said, “The words a lovely girl is looking for are, ‘Thank you, Master’.” She snorted, and she curled up tightly against him, legs around his waist, hissing as her sore bottom rubbed against his groin. 

“I am sorry,” she murmured against his throat. “I should have listened to you.”

He agreed wholeheartedly, but merely hummed and tightened his arms around her. 

“If… you don’t want to um… engage in bed play, I will stop teasing you,” she offered tentatively. She was a little ashamed to admit it, but now that the catharsis of the tears was over, the pain registering on her ass was turning her on a bit, and sitting on his lap, she could feel his erection growing. But she was trying to be good; she was trying to remember what he had said about her health, and she had been throwing up only the night before. If what he had said was true, maybe she had come close to dying.

He sat still for a moment, then rubbed her back affectionately. She looked up at him, and saw his eyes twinkling merrily in the gentle firelight.

“Jaqen?” 

“Lovely girl,” he purred. And he took her mouth, and her surprise was such that she opened to him immediately. He turned her face, dipping her head back, and simply took what he wanted. His tongue invaded to find hers, slipping alongside and ruthlessly taking, his lips sliding and she moaned, her hands finding the fabric of his robe and pulling him close. His teeth closed on her bottom lip for a moment, nibbling for a scant second before he plunged back in, mimicking what he wanted his cock to do to her, and he dipped his head to the side, kissing her harder, taking more from her. Her head was pressed back in one hand, while his other stole down immediately to her cunt, and without further ado, he shoved two fingers inside, finding her still pleasantly wet, whatever the discipline had done to her.

Her mouth dropped open, but he didn’t let her go, biting into her mouth, chasing his tongue in, and setting a vicious rhythm with his fingers. She tried to rearrange her legs, but he wouldn’t let her.

“You will come like this,” he growled into her mouth.

She mewled, began to undulate on his fingers, and he grinned fiercely. Swiping his tongue against hers, nipping her lips, kissing her deeply, again and again, he shoved a third finger into her. 

“Yes, you will come like this,” he murmured, working her mercilessly he stretched her hole further. “Such a shameless, lovely, _greedy_ cunt you have.” He had lost all Lorathi speech, and didn’t care to find it again. She was writhing on his hand, her wetness dripping onto his palm, gathering, and he wanted to see if it could spill onto his wrist. Sometimes she did that, if he fucked her very hard and pleased her cunt and pearl just right. He left her mouth and trailed his lips down her chin, using his other hand to tip her head back. He latched onto her neck, bit hard enough to hear her scream, and then suckled hard enough to leave a mark. 

“M…more,” she cried out.

“More what,” he muttered cruelly. “More fingers? More mouth? More cock?”

“All of it!” she shouted, as he flicked the thumb at her cunt over her pearl, enjoying her shudders as she tried to bend over his shoulder.

He grabbed the braid he had made of her hair, and wrenched her head back. Her eyes fluttered open and he stared at her. 

“You will come like this, when I say, and how I say,” he growled. She groaned in frustration, but her cunt agreed, tightening on his fingers. He rewarded it by slipping in the fourth finger, making his hand tight like a spear, and she dropped her mouth open, hissing and moaning.

“Such a wet, greedy cunt you have,” he said conversationally, as though he was talking about the weather in Braavos, or the restaurant for tonight’s dinner. “It likes my hand. It wants to suck it all in. Doesn’t it?”

“Y…yes, Master,” she moaned, as she tried to sit on his hand. 

He grinned, then turned his hand, twisting it again and again, letting her feel the knuckles. She moaned, high and sharp, and began a litany of how much she liked what he was doing, how it was exactly what she wanted, and would he please move his thumb, please Master, right there? Oh yes, right there, please, she wanted to come so badly, please?

He flicked his tongue into her mouth again, and she panted, unable to care that he was kissing her, but loving it all the same. He leaned over and took one hard nipple into his mouth, sucked hard, and then did the same with the other. He knew that this did little for her, for she needed much more stimulation, but he enjoyed doing that to her breasts purely for his own sake, and so he did it again and again.

“I’m going to bite this,” he warned her as he sucked around a hot nipple, “and when I do, you will come for me.”

She began to pant, and he felt the walls of her cunt fluttering around his hand. She was very close. He rotated again and again, feeling her trying to draw him in, trying to grasp him, trying to milk him for the climax that was just on the horizon. She was whimpering, moaning his name, begging. It was everything he wanted.

Then he bit down, delicately, _just so_ , on the hardened, rosy nipple, just the way she liked it, all for her sake, and she shrieked. The fingers of his hand inside her were constricted hard, and he winced a little; everything about Arya Stark was strong, including her cunt. She rolled her hips, taking all of the pleasure he had to give her. Moans and groans of pleasure cascaded from her mouth like the finest wine, and he took immense joy and satisfaction in watching her, mesmerised by the transformation that the raw pleasure gave to her cherished face. Her eyes never left his, as she boldly met his gaze, and his eyes never left hers, transfixed by what she let him see. No other lover had ever been so open to him. No other lover had ever opened the doors of their souls so completely to him, giving of themselves as though there were endless pieces to give.

Jaqen H’ghar knew better. There were only so many parts of one’s self, and if one wished, one could give them all away and become no one. Yet Arya Stark gave all of herself to him in these moments, entrusted herself to him, before gathering herself back, completely intact and whole, as though that miracle were an everyday occurrence that anyone could perform.

She humbled him with her trust. As her eyes closed in the last frissons of pleasure, her cunt twitching with aftershocks, but finally relinquishing their prize, he kissed her lips gently, reverently. She smiled against his mouth, and licked it naughtily, even as she struggled to regain her breath.

He smiled, as she pawed at his robes.

“I want your cock,” she said plaintively, opening her grey eyes to look at him with hunger.

Who was he to deny her now? After all she had given him, how could he?

He lifted his robes away, revealing his own tan-brown skin, now bronze in the firelight. Delighted, she roped her arms around his neck, and seeing him proudly erect in the light, weeping and straining for her, she sat astride him, and lifted her hips up.

“Please?” she said held herself up, waiting for him to line himself up. He took himself in hand, and began to tease her with the fattened head of his cock. It was a favourite activity for them both, to see how long they could last before one would simply stuff his cock into her. 

He grunted and began to tease her, knowing she had to be sensitive after the orgasm she had just received. Though his erection was bordering on painful, its head purple with desire, he simply breathed into the moment, and used himself as a toy for her pleasure. She wriggled, enjoying how he circled her clit, rubbed around her dripping hole, and added more slick to her with his own pre-come.

“Does a lovely girl crave this?” he teased, rubbing the head around her hole, dipping only slightly, but never breaching her.

She groaned, but merely fell back onto her elbows, letting him see her again in parody to her earlier antics. She used her hands to open her folds, and rubbing her clit, lifted her hips in tandem to his circling with his cock. He groaned.

“Welcome back to my cunt show,” she grinned, determined to win the game. She teased her clit again, enjoying how it was flared up again, ready for more, and he glared down at her. 

“That was very naughty, lovely girl,” he replied.

“A girl has been disciplined,” she said immediately, her ass still stinging from the earlier spanking.

“Just so,” he said warmly, but then lifted himself away, saying, “Bend over, lovely girl.”

She gave him a look, but did as he asked, hoping that he wasn’t going to spank her again. Her ass really did still hurt. 

He stared at the reddened globes, and knew she wouldn’t enjoy sitting down for a while. ‘Good,’ he thought. ‘Discipline should have reminders.’ And this was the other reason he wanted to take her on her knees. He wanted to keep her off her ass until later.

He spread her legs and without warning, spread her ass cheeks wide. She hissed, feeling the stinging on the skin of her cheeks, but he ignored that. He leaned down and gently licked around her puckered hole instead, and she went boneless under him. Her ass stayed in the air as she let her head down, resting it on her arms. 

“Hnnngh,” she groaned as he rimmed her delicately, all the while his right hand began to caress her folds below, starting with her labia, then working around her sensitive clit, then finally playing with her sopping entrance. More licking, then he finally just let himself say what he wanted. 

“A man will take this,” he said darkly. 

“What?” Alarm registered. It was rare that he asked for this, maybe once or twice a season. He was definitely in a mood.

“A girl will be prepared,” was all he said. 

She shivered, and he took out a double-ended steel wand from his rucksack. One side had a small ball, and the other a bigger one. It curved slightly, and looked for all the world like a piece of art. Her mouth dropped open. She had never seen this toy before, and he relished the look of shock she gave him. It was rare that he managed to get one up on his lovely girl, and he was going to enjoy every single second of the next hour or so. 

“Let’s play,” he growled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second part on its way soon...


	13. Resonate (part 2)

Jaqen reached into his bag and pulled out a small vial of Lyseni lubricant, smiling to himself as he worked quickly to smear it liberally on his cock and the smaller end of the steel double wand. He had been saving this for the right occasion, and his fingers nearly trembled with the excitement of the feast laid out before him.

Arya’s pinkened ass lay rigid in front of him, and he smacked it lightly just once to remind her of the rules. She yelped and tried to wriggle away, but he grasped her hip, bringing her sex close to his mouth, where he buried his lips and tongue immediately into her genitals.

He stretched his tongue out as far as he could, angling his jaw to reach as far below, down towards her clit as closely as possible. Arya responded by flattening onto her chest, her ass high in the air, and a long, high moan escaped into the air. He grinned, and his teeth settled against her labia as she grunted and rutted against him.

He slapped her ass again, reminding her to stay still. She quieted, whimpering.

With his other hand, he began to let the cold steel toy lay against the cleft of her ass, warming it to her skin. She shivered hard, but he distracted her with licks and gentle tugs with his lips. He moved his mouth to her weeping cunt, swirling all the slick he could find, and then adding some of his own by spitting delicately into it. He chuckled. 

“What was the point of bathing?” he asked cruelly. “You’re a mess now, Arya Stark.”

She moaned incoherently as he licked her harder, switching back and forth between her clit, the folds of her puffy vulva, and back into just the opening around her aching cunt. She tried to thrust again, and he smacked her ass each time. 

“Please!” she cried out, losing her composure. “Pleeeease, Master,” she began to moan repeatedly, as he muttered, “Please who?”

He grinned again, smirking into her cunt, his nose beginning to gently press above her as he began to move upwards. 

“I want more,” he said darkly.

“More?”

“Mmmhmm,” he said, as he moved upwards, slipping two fingers deep into her cunt, his fingers turned downwards to press hard against the spongey part at the top of her slit, causing her to cry out in pleasure. He reached forward with his other hand and grabbed her arms, pulling them tight across the small of her back. 

“Do not move these, or I will tie you,” he warned.

“Yes, Master,” she promised.

“Good girl,” he crooned. He leaned forward, moving his fingers deep and slow in reward against the spongey spot she so loved, and kissed the centre of her shoulder blades. The movement of his entire body pressing her against her was like ecstasy, a warm blanket of muscles and power, and she felt bliss and security in his domination over her. She fisted her hands across her own wrists, determined to stay where he put her, and he nipped her shoulder.

“Very good girl,” he whispered into her ear again, and she flushed with pleasure at the praise, lost to the moment, wanting nothing more than to earn more of his joy in her surrender. Needing nothing but to please him.

Then he was gone, back down to her ass, and his hands were spreading her cheeks, and his tongue was --- was---!

“Fuck!” she cried out, her legs in danger of collapsing completely under her.

A dark chuckle was all she heard behind her, along with obscene licks of his tongue that sounded out over the pops of the fire and the hoarse sounds of her own breathing. 

It was filthy. 

It was divine.

His tongue flickered over the secret place of her, and though she felt embarrassed, even a little horrified, the pleasure was too, too good. She ground her head against the floor cushion and surrendered to him, flexing her hands against her own wrists at the small of her back. She moaned his name and whispered how good it felt, how she couldn’t believe it was so good, and how she never wanted him to stop.

“Good,” he said, stopping immediately.

She whined, bucking her ass back up, looking for his tongue again. 

He laughed, and she heard shuffling. She looked over her shoulder, twisting slightly, and saw through her lashes that he had picked up the wand.

“Wait –“

He did not wait. 

In a smooth movement, the small bulbous end was thrust into her cunt, the toy growing quickly in girth as it slid in and in, all the way to very centre of her. The curved nature of the wand caused her to gasp with the unfamiliar shape, the unrelenting hardness giving her no quarter. She groaned as Jaqen grasped the large bulbed end to begin to thrust the toy in and out of her sopping cunt. He opened her ass to a single finger, and then he began to work the toy and his finger in and out.

“Gods!” she cried.

“There is only one god,” he reminded her cruelly, and thrust the toy hard against her cervix. She laughed helplessly and groaned long, as he rewarded by a low growl and a twist in her hips when Arya began to ride the toy and his finger.

“Master, pleaaaase,” she pleaded with him. He worked a second finger into her ass slowly, his excitement growing as she began to move against the toy harder, the stretch in her ass being ignored by the pleasure growing in her cunt. 

“Slow!” he commanded, his hand on the toy slowing down. His cock was a heavy mass against her thigh, pre-come dribbling. He wanted to take her now, but she was not yet ready. She needed at least one more finger, and he wanted her to beg for him to take her.

‘Not yet,’ he thought, his mind an iron mix of control and desire. 

He pulled the toy out, and flipped it over. It was covered with thickened white ropes of her desire for him, and he quickly covered the heavy, bulbous side of it with everything she had given. Then he placed it gently back into the entrance of her sopping cunt, the fat side this time beginning to stretch her, and he relished her squeal of surprise as he began to work it into her.

“What the fuck, Jaqen!” 

“You can take it,” he growled, as he worked it from side to side into her cunt, grinding it slowly into her, the mewls of slight pain quickly changing into howls of pleasure. He grunted in deep, sadistic pleasure as he watched her pretty quim flush with more of her own slick, more of her own engorgement, as it took the fat bulb and the rest of the heavier side of the wand.

He left part of the curving toy slightly dangling from her, enjoying the look of it hanging from her beautiful body, then pressed the bulb hard against her spongey-spot, rubbing down just hard enough to let her begin to quake. 

She shrieked, and he laughed cruelly.

“Does a lovely girl like my toy?” 

“Y…yes!”

His eyes darkened, but she could not see it. He stopped moving the toy and slapped her ass, hard. 

“Yes, Master! I’m sorry!”

“Better,” he said, and he leaned down to continue licking her ass, then replacing his two fingers, one by one. After a few minutes of playing with her, edging her close to a hard orgasm, but backing off each time, enjoying her whines, he spread her legs further.

“What do you want, Arya Stark?” he asked in a rumbling, mocking tone. He wanted her to beg. He needed to hear her sweet voice beg for his cock in her ass. Needed to hear her moan for him to ride her. 

His purple headed cock throbbed where he rubbed it hard against her puckered star, and he added spit for more lubrication to her hole, added more of the Lyseni grease. Her eyes were rolling against the pillow where he could not see, and her mouth was openly panting. 

The sensations of pleasure shooting from her cunt, from the millions of sensitive nerves around her anus, were driving her insane. He had taken her to the edge so many times, but so cruelly, had never taken her over once. It was different from their usual playtimes. Usually he would wring her out, again and again, but not this time. He wanted something else. She shivered.

He rolled the crown of his head once over, then jiggled the toy in her cunt hard, in ever widening circles, letting her feel how full she was….how much fuller she could become…. if only she would tell him what she wanted. 

But Starks never begged.

She turned her head into the floor cushion, refusing to speak, and he sighed. A third finger entered her ass, and he began to plunge them in and out, twisting and letting her enjoy it, but never letting her come. In his fingers went, twisting slightly, the twinges of pain long gone. Only deep pleasure, and more to come, was all he promised. All she had to do was beg. 

Then the toy, rubbing at her swollen walls, pressure deep against her spongey topside, her ass high the air, everything quivering…. 

And then the question.

“What do you want, Arya Stark?”

She could scream with frustration. 

Over and over he tortured her, asking the question again and again. Edging her with fingers and lips, tongue and teeth. Until finally he left the toy where it was, stuffed inside of her, only to let himself lean over to grab her hands from her back with his other hand. His cock pressed against her swollen tissues, and she shivered. 

By taking her wrists apart, she had freedom of movement again. Immediately, her hands went to her mouth, but he stopped that by putting one hand to the toy, and the other to her breast.

“Rut,” he commanded, as he returned his attention to her ass. 

He positioned himself better behind her, watching her as she took her pleasure however she liked from the toy.

Her moans began to build again, and he reminded her, “You may not come yet, Arya Stark.”

She whimpered, but quickly nodded. His lips at her neck nipped in warning and reward, and she rutted harder and with more ferocity at the steel wand, her fingers at her breast and clit beginning to work in earnest again.

“What do you want, Arya Stark,” he asked again, as the crown of his head began to move in circles around her ass. His fingers had begun to massage the globes of her ass, pulling them apart, the thumbs gently pressing against her entrance, letting her know it was her choice. The pleasure was excruciating, exquisite, and all-consuming. 

Her legs were shaking almost uncontrollably. Her arms were shivering, and her back was almost bowed, her head back and her whole body a question mark that had only one answer.

“I want you,” she whispered into the shadows.

“Where?” his dark voice purred.

“Everywhere,” she replied. “Always. I am yours. Valar morghulis.”

It was enough.

He positioned the crown of his cock against his three fingers, and carefully, so slowly, he began to push into her. His cock was so much thicker, and she moaned hard against the intrusion, but his preparation had been so thorough, she simply opened her eyes, looked up and found his eyes waiting for her above her. He was there, watching her, his thighs around her, as her body had flexed and tightened. They stared into each other’s gazes as he pushed himself achingly, so slowly into her, and she felt herself losing all control of her ability to move, to hold herself upright. Immediately his arms surrounded her, and she felt him holding her up, her torso secured in his arms, as he pierced her deeper, going further and deeper, and a pain hit her for a moment, but as she wailed, he simply took her mouth, his tongue wrenching the sting as his due. He halted, waiting for her signal, and as she moved backwards, he thrust into her mouth again, his thick cock taking her ass further, and then she could hold herself up no longer, and she fell forward.

He let her, grasping her hips, and began to ride her. The pleasure hit her hard, and she screamed. Her ass, so pink and gold in the firelight, beckoned him. He licked his lips and watched his cock as it disappeared, burrowing into his hard-won prize. As he crested the ridge and came almost out, then thrust slowly back in, he watched as his darling girl began to thrust the toy in time with his movements.

“Yes,” he grunted, “fuck it, lovely girl. Give me your cunt show now.”

Together, they were back on their knees as he kept fucking her. He stole his fingers to her clit, then took hold of the toy. She shrieked as he began to use the toy to fuck her in tandem with his cock.

In, the toy. Then out, only for his cock to thrust into her ass, hard and deep. 

Out, his cock. She plunged the toy hard, grinding it into her aching cunt, needing it to fill her.

Switching. Again and again. Their grunts and sighs building. Her fingers a blur on her clit. His fingers, pulling on her tits, then playing with her clit, then pulling at her hair. His teeth on her neck, then on her shoulders. His hand, slapping her ass, then pulling her hips to sink harder into her.

She began to shake again, and he decided at last to have mercy on her.

“I will want you forever,” he confessed into the shadows around them, and he watched as she looked back into his eyes. Her face was red with exertion, and her eyes were leaking tears of some nameless emotion.

“There is nothing I won’t kill for you,” he said as thrust viciously into her, and she moaned hard. “There is nowhere you can go that I won’t find you and help you.” Her cunt tightened around the steel wand. 

Then he leaned over, and biting into her ear, he whispered, “Now come on my cock, my pretty little wolf.” 

With his fingers flicking hard over her pearl, her hand moving the wand in and out of her cunt, and his hard length spearing into her ass just exactly how she needed it, she came long and hard. Her body spasmed, her eyes staring into his in astonishment, and as her ass began to react, he groaned and emptied into her. She felt the ropes of his seed as they painted her insides, and felt a deep sense of pride and satisfaction. This was Jaqen, her partner, her lover. She wanted to keep him inside of her for as long as possible. She gripped his arms, gripped him inside of her, and squeezed.

He winced, but kept coming, and she laughed as she began to tremble with smaller orgasms.

Seeing his wince, she laughed a little harder, helpless as her cunt and ass twitched and spasmed, making her moan and cry out.

“Sorry…this is… all your fault,” she moaned around a giggle, as she continued to grind gently, then squeeze harder. “I’m still…coming!”

“Me …too…,” he admitted with a small wondrous chuckle, groaning. “Oh…that’s interesting,” as he continued to empty into her for a few more moments, his eyes rolling back in ecstasy.

They enjoyed their aftershocks for long, blissful seconds that felt like minutes, even though objectively, both knew it could not be the case. They were stuck together by come, lubrication, and sweat, and neither moved. She still had the steel wand inside of her, and Jaqen’s softening cock besides, but neither moved a single inch.

They were content to lay by the fire, breathing in each other’s air, chuckling occasionally with a little bit of wonder at their own reactions, and in genuine peace.

They had earned the respite. Clean-up would be a bitch, but that could come later. For at least a few minutes, nothing mattered more than to feel the peace they had earned, and to do nothing more than exist in the firelight and shadows they had made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand that's it. I might add an epilogue. But technically, that's it.


End file.
